


A Game of Chess

by servalansflowers19



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, F/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 37,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28391697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servalansflowers19/pseuds/servalansflowers19
Summary: You have set out to play a game of chess. But what if the king piece was broken? Would you try to repair it, or carve a new one to replace it altogether? Or would you still play the game with it broken, knowing full well what it once was?Would it make a difference to anyone but you?
Relationships: Malik Al-Sayf/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	1. ***

**Author's Note:**

> Credit where it's due: while I've played and watched AC1 several times, the characterisation and the nature of the banter between Malik and Altaïr owes a great deal to the amazing work done by [clouddesu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/niawen) and [doubleleaf](https://www.deviantart.com/doubleleaf) over the years, especially the Timelines comics.
> 
> Anything _wrong_ with the characterisation etc. is totally my fault, though.
> 
> If you haven't read them... [What the hell are you waiting for?](https://actimelines.tumblr.com/)

You have set out to play a game of chess. But what if the king piece was broken? Would you try to repair it, or carve a new one to replace it altogether? Or would you still play the game with it broken, knowing full well what it once was?

Would it make a difference to anyone but you?

They say that Yakub dreamt of a ladder to heaven along which angels descended and ascended without a pause. What a terrifying fate, even for an angel, an eternity of rungs, even if they do lead to Heaven.

Do they wish it so, or are they chained to the ladder?

Sleep now. Sleep.


	2. A traveller arrives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: The variant of chess played in medieval Arab world, called [Shatranj](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shatranj), was slightly different from the game today. Pieces also had different names from the ones commonly used in today’s chess. _Fil_ , or _alfil_ is the the piece equivalent to the bishop in chess.

Altaïr had departed before the first light of dawn. For a few months now, Malik had noticed Altaïr torn between the desire to stay in the fortress, ensuring everything was in order, and an almost desperate desire to find out what was going on in the world under Saladin’s heirs. The short journey could have been assigned to someone else. Yet upon seeing the trapped look in Altaïr’s eyes, Malik himself encouraged the mentor of Masyaf to take the short trip.

Two days later, just as Malik had dryly predicted, the walls of the fortress had failed to collapse, no unexpected army had amassed at the gates of Masyaf village and no random plagues had struck. Instead, Malik had quietly dedicated himself to more menial matters. The stream that they had diverted to feed a bathhouse in the fortress was still running well in the rising heat of the summer. They had shifted the stables out to the lower passes towards the village, which finally put a stop to the animals wondering about the inner bailey. Several brothers had asked for permission to move their quarters to the village proper, which meant the novices’ quarters could be enlarged.

Malik contentedly put away the plans and sketches that had kept him occupied for the last few days. He glanced at the chess board that sat on the corner of Altaïr’sdesk.

The game had begun almost two weeks ago, and now it would have to wait. Busy as they were, the mentor of Masyaf and his _dai_ had set up the board, drawing moves as time permitted. Sometimes a move would be made first thing in the morning, after a good night of pondering. Sometimes one of them would draw quickly, in passing, leaving the new setup on the board in place of a grinning challenge.

Chin in hand, Malik eyed the white _fil_ on the chess board. From the bailey came the sound of galloping hooves, distracting him. A guard at the gate was greeting the rider. The voices echoed in the quiet of the afternoon. Malik sauntered down into the bailey.

A grubby figure in the robes of a novice was seemingly arguing with the man at the gate. They gesticulated urgently, dropping the reins of their horse. The horse, in turn, chose to wonder off in search of water or hay.

“He is not here right now, sister,” the guard posted at the gate was saying.

“Are you sure of this?” the novice insisted. “Is there anyone else I can ask?”

The guard motioned towards the staircase. The novice hurried up the stairs. On seeing Malik, she stopped a step or two below him.

“I need to speak with Mentor Ibn-La’Ahad”, she said firmly. Malik looked down.

“What you need to do first of all is tie off that animal,” he said, pointing to the horse that had been wandering the bailey. “And then you can try telling me your name and where you came from.”

The young woman looked over her shoulder and frowned.

“Ah, yes,” she said. “I will.”

“Yes, what?” Malik prompted.

She grimaced at him and finally looked him over, taking in his robes and the belt.

“Yes, _dai_ ,” she said, not looking at all embarrassed.

Once the horse was taken care of, she walked back to Malik, who was now leaning against the post at the foot of the stairs.

“Forgive me, I am not very used to horses,” she bowed, a gloved hand pressed to her chest.

Several other people have poked their heads into the bailey to observe the unexpected entertainment. Malik snorted.

“What is your name, and where are you from?” he tried again.

She made another slight bow.

“The name is Astīr, and I come from Edessa,” she said. “I’ve been sent to talk to Mentor Ibn-La’Ahad.”

Malik tried to remember anything at all about the bureau of Edessa. The crusaders, including Templars, had been driven out of the ancient city more than two generations ago. He could remember nothing further.

“He is not here right now. If this is an urgent matter, you can speak with me. I’m Malik Al-Sayf.”

Astir shook her head, clicking her tongue in annoyance.

“I was ordered to speak only with him. Do you know when he will return?”

Malik leaned in closer to the dusty hood.

“When he chooses to, novice,” he growled. “You can talk to me, or you can wait.”

To Malik’s shock, she merely shrugged, as though unsurprised at this inconvenience.

“I suppose I shall wait then,” she said. “Should I wait in the village or here?” she asked in the voice of a traveller asking an innkeeper where the privies were.

Malik pointed behind him.

“The quarters for novices are over there. And if you get tired of waiting, talk to brother Da’ud and he will find you something to do.”

Astir nodded.

“Thank you, _dai_ ,” she said. “I shall do exactly that.”

She collected her saddlebags and walked off towards the novices’ quarters without another word.


	3. The useless one

Try as he might, Malik could not remember much about the Edessa bureau. He had gone through what records remained. He could only trust them so far, he thought as he flicked through pages and sheets. Considering the scale of Al-Mualim’s deception, it was possible that some letters or reports had been destroyed.

Two generations ago, the Zengid warlords had driven crusaders out of Edessa. Now Malik tried to recall if the new rulers had pledged fealty to Saladin, and if they did, what that fealty looked like these days when Saladin’s heirs were carving out pieces of the caliphate for themselves. Compared to the recent chaos around Masyaf, Edessa in the north would have been positively peaceful. Perhaps the bureau had grown quiet and lazy in that safety. He could not find any names, however, and that made him suspicious.

He had asked Da’ud to keep an eye on the visitor from Edessa. The brother in charge of novices reported that the young woman seemed to spend most of her time looking around Masyaf with fascination of a visitor to a shrine or a foreign city. She had said to Da’ud much the same things she had said so brazenly to Malik: that she was sent to Masyaf by her mentor, Musa Al-Rahim, that Edessa had no fortress for the Order comparable to Masyaf, and that anything else about her mission was for Altaïr’s ears alone. Da’ud said the girl seemed courteous and a good guest, but tight-lipped about anything except the most superficial details.

Malik took to observing the silent visitor in his spare time. She meandered around the fortress, sometimes listening, sometimes just observing. He saw her in the inner gardens a few times as she gazed around with great intensity. She had kept her hood off since her arrival. Occasionally, as she twisted her head this way and that, Malik would catch a glimpse of a long neck that flashed white against the tanned face and the mass of dark hair. Every now and then, a gloved hand would reach out and touch the weathered stones.

When he saw her strolling casually along the battlements while much work was being carried out in the courtyard below, he decided enough was enough.

“Astir of Edessa,” he called out to her as he approached. “I see you are enjoying our hospitality.”

“I am, _dai_ ,” she said meekly. “I take it the Mentor has still not returned?”

Malik sighed,

“No, he has not. But I was wondering,” he said in his politest voice, “Would you care to help out with anything while you wait?”

Astir thought for a moment.

“Do you need any help around the kitchens?”

“Are you any good at cooking?”

She smiled broadly.

“I am very good at eating,” she said happily and patted her stomach.

“Do they feed you well in Edessa?” Malik asked.

The smile disappeared.

“I do not go hungry, if that is what you are asking,” she replied.

Malik leaned against the battlements.

“How fares the Order in Edessa, anyway?”

“As well as can be expected in a city raised to the ground every few generations,” Astir said coldly. “We have our share of troubles. We are still there, and we are alive.”

Malik looked over the walls to the grey cliffs around the fortress.

“Who is the _rafiq_ of the Edessa bureau now?” he asked.

The wind picked up, stirring the banners and the dust. Astir pulled her hood up.

“My _mentor_ ,” she said coldly “Is called Musa Al-Rahim. He has looked after Edessa for almost forty years.”

“I could find very little mention of him,” Malik said with what he hoped was a tone of polite enquiry.

“Just so,” she said, offering no further help in the conversation. Malik looked at the expressionless face, carefully made blank of all emotion.

“I shall go and see if they require my help in the kitchen, _dai_ ,” she said after a moment.

Lips pressed in a tight line, Malik watched her walk away.


	4. The novice and the dungeon

Letters had been arriving from around the land. They spoke of shadowy games and conspiracies in the wake of Saladin’s death, but brought no unexpected news. Most importantly, to Malik’s mind, no whispers or gossip mentioned the treasure kept in Masyaf or anything other than such political conniving as would follow the death of a ruler.

Then, towards the end of a quiet day filled with the sound of quill scratching on paper, Da’ud rushed in, as close to breathless as Malik had ever seen the new Master of the Novices.

“Something happened,” Malik said, even though that was obvious.

Da’ud looked uncomfortable.

“It’s the novice from Edessa, _dai_.”

Malik sighed, not very surprised. He motioned for Da’ud to continue.

“I caught her snooping around below the cellars,” Da’ud explained. “Down where the new library is being constructed.”

Malik stood up.

“Where is she now?”

Da’ud looked a little embarrassed.

“Chained up in the dungeons, _dai_.”

“Chained up?” Malik frowned. “Did she attack you?”

Da’ud looked uncomfortable.

“No. In fact, I think I knocked her out before she even saw me. But with everything that has happened...” he shrugged apologetically.

Malik waved a dismissive hand.

“I do not blame you. I will go and see her.”

Da’ud handed him the keys to the rarely used dungeons. Malik made his way to the depths of the fortress. Opening the door took a while, of course, what with the keys, the torch, the door, and only one arm at his disposal. He stepped in and placed the torch in an empty sconce.

Astir was leaning against the wall, both arms hanging in chains. She looked up. Seeing Malik, she sighed tiredly.

“Do you know why you are here?” Malik asked softly.

She nodded.

“I was looking in a place that was forbidden, as I had been clearly told,” she said. “Someone must have noticed me and hit me. I have woken up here in chains and my head hurts.”

“What were you looking for down there?” Malik asked evenly.

She sighed again.

“I promise to explain everything to Mentor Ibn-La’Ahad when he returns.”

It was Malik’s turn to sigh with impatience.

“Anything you say to him, I will hear as well,” he said. “You can simply tell me and we can let you out of here.”

Astir looked up, eyes large in the dim light.

“I understand, _dai_. Nevertheless, the instructions were clear and I gave my word. I will wait. I do not mind waiting here.”

Malik gave up.

“Are you injured?”

Astir moved slightly, as though testing that parts of her body were still in place.

“I do not think so, apart from the blow to the head.”

“Let me see.”

She leaned her head forward obediently. Malik felt the back of her head under the heavy tresses of the now undone hair. There was a lump there, but no blood. Her gaze was clear.

“Nothing else?” he asked, stepping back.

“No.”

She did not look to be in pain, Malik thought. He frowned at the arms held up by the chains on the wall. She was unarmed, and what harm –

He squinted at Astir’s hand. One of the gloved fingers was oddly twisted. Only a broken bone would twist like that, Malik thought, and a broken bone at that angle would be agonisingly painful, impossible to conceal. Astir looked from his face to her hand and back again, eyes widening.

That would be proof enough, Malik decided. He pressed against the chained arm and pulled the glove off. It revealed a slightly calloused, but perfectly healthy hand. The ring finger had been cleanly cut off at the second knuckle. The cut was long healed.

Malik let the glove drop.

“You are no novice,” he said coldly.

“I never said I was,” came the almost cheerful response.

“Then why the pretence? Why the novice’s robes?”

At this, the captive gave him an unfriendly grin.

“Because these are the only ones I have, _dai_. Unlike you here in Masyaf, we do not bother with robe markings and trimmings all the time.”

Malik breathed out slowly.

“What else have you lied about?”

“I did not – “ Astir began, then stopped, probably seeing the look on his face. “I have not lied about anything,” she finished in a much calmer tone.

“And you maintain that it was the _rafiq_ of Edessa that sent you?”

“He did,” was the immediate response.

“And the name you gave me, Astir, is that your real name?”

She thought for a moment.

“It is, but it is not the only one. Those who know me well also call me Hadi,” Astir explained.

“Then which one is it?” Malik asked, his voice rising.

“Both,” Astir quipped.

Malik went to cross his arms, an old habit that he had not yet shaken off. He stopped himself and placed his fist on his hip instead.

“It would take at least a week to send someone to Edessa to verify that you speak the truth,” he pointed out.

“The Mentor may be back by that time,” she countered. “Either way, I will wait here. I knowingly broke a clear rule. It is fair.”

Once again, Malik gave up.

“Since you are that intent on staying in here,” he motioned around the small cell. “Is there anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable?”

Astir shook her head, trying to shake the hair that had fallen over her eyes. When this failed, she looked at Malik sadly through the long tresses that now fell over her face.

“Unchain me, _dai_.”

Malik thought for a moment, then nodded. As he released the manacles, Astir gratefully sat down, massaging her arms and stretching her legs.

“You will not come to any harm in here,” Malik stated firmly. “I have the only keys to this place.”

She nodded.

“Thank you. I apologise for my transgression. I will wait here.”

Malik stood over her for a moment longer, but she did not look up again. He picked up the torch and left the cell, locking the door behind him.

The matter was confusing, but also worrying. One assassin could hardly do much harm to the entirety of Masyaf, to himself or to Altaïr, especially when locked up in the dungeons. On the other hand, someone had shown up, refused to explain their mission, lied about their rank and brazenly disobeyed the rules. Moreover, the quite sensible Da’ud was still shaken enough from the events of Al-Mualim’s death that even a visiting novice could make him jumpy. Or perhaps Da’ud was correct and Malik was overconfident?

He went to reassure Da’ud that no immediate danger or disaster would follow. Then he asked to see Astir’s possessions. She had left her sword – slightly shorter than usual, but well maintained – behind, clearly not fearing an attack. Her other possessions contained no letters, notes or anything else of interest, except the familiar leather bracer with its intricate mechanism and a well-made belt with a few throwing knives folded carefully into it.

She had made no great attempt to hide any of these, Malik had to admit. And yet, the blatant arrogance – and the amusement at his expense – made him in equal parts angry and suspicious.

Perhaps the wisest move would be to simply wait for Altaïr to return. If Astir of Edessa had been planning any mischief, she could hardly carry it out now. And if the waiting game went on for too long, he would send a messenger to the closest bureau and get a few questions answered.

It was growing late. The matter at least partially settled in his mind, Malik decided to retire for the night.

A few hours later, he was still wide awake. Names reeled about in his head. He traced the distance between Edessa and Masyaf in his mind. Da’ud’s worried face comingled with Altaïr’s concerned one. He thought back on Haras, yet another traitor. He wondered about names and ranks. He tried to recall any rumours from the north. Eventually, he admitted that sleep was beyond his grasp and got up.

Cool night air greeted his as he stepped onto the battlements. He waved a greeting to the night watchers. Some distance from them, he leaned on the parapet. The path from the fortress to the Masyaf village lay silent in the moonlight. Malik’s eyes followed the bright band to the mouth of the canyon.

No rider appeared.

“Hurry back, you ass,” Malik whispered through gritted teeth.

Once back inside, he stared again at the chess board on Altaïr’s desk and considered the next possible move. Names and questions still clamoured for his useless attention. Irritated, he picked up the white _fil_ on the board and moved it a few diagonal spaces, then walked off.

A whiff of food being prepared reached him from somewhere. Some hungry soul had decided to raid the kitchen in the dead of the night. They would be mightily surprised at being caught –

Malik cursed quietly, but heartily. He realised he would have to go back to the dungeon. They had not left their captive any food or drink. He made his way back to the cell, carrying a pitcher of water and a plate of bread and cheese.

Astir was curled up, turned to the wall and hood pulled over her face. Malik stared at the scrunched-up form in the corner. They had not had much reason to use the dungeons in the last year or more. There were no pallets here and no blankets. Even fully dressed, he could feel the chill seeping in through the cold ground and thick stone walls.

Malik put the food and water down carefully. Taking off his black robe, he covered the sleeping form. Probably feeling the warmth, she sighed contentedly and pulled the cover tighter around herself.

Malik left the cell and locked the door quietly behind him.


	5. A traveller returns

The following day, as morning gave way to a heated noon, Malik heard Altaïr’s voice in the courtyard. He forced himself to sit still. Nothing was on fire, after all. He could give the weary traveller time to clean himself up. He sat patiently at one of the large tables, fingers tapping on the wood, nose buried in an old map of the Kingdoms. Altaïr entered the room and stopped at the chessboard.

“I take it the journey went well? You’re not dripping with blood,” Malik muttered.

Altaïr was looking from the chessboard to his opponent and back, seemingly confused.

“It did go well,” he said after a moment. “You were right. It did me good to get out onto the road, and a few rumours can be put to rest now.”

He stepped in front of Malik, folding his arms.

“What made you so distracted while I’ve been away?”

Malik looked up.

“Distracted,” he repeated dryly. “How so?”

Altaïr glanced at the chessboard again, then grinned.

“I’ll explain later. Da’ud ran up to tell me that we have apparently had a difficult guest.”

Malik briefly described the odd visitor who turned out to not be a novice, and the recent trouble. At the mention of the secret library below the fortress, Altaïr frowned.

“What did she claim she was doing there?”

Malik rolled his eyes.

“She does not deny being caught there, but she refuses to explain the matter to anyone but you, which is why she is still waiting in the cells.”

Altaïr’s frown deepened.

“What do you think she was looking for?”

They stared at each other for moment.

“The Apple?” they said at the same time.

“Would they have heard about it in Edessa?” Malik wondered.

“Better to assume so.” Altaïr was drumming his fingers on the desk. “I cannot recall much about that bureau at all. Did she snoop around anywhere else? Or ask a lot of questions?”

“No,” Malik confirmed. “According to Da’ud, she was polite and quiet as a mouse, if prone to idling.”

“We’d better go talk to that mouse,” Altaïr said. “I do not like the sound of this at all.”

They descended into the lower parts of the keep.

“Hiding her rank and having several names,” Altaïr thought out loud. “Unusual. What did she say her name was?”

“Astir,” Malik answered. “And apparently also Hadi, or something similar.”

Altaïr blinked as though trying to remember something.

“What is it?”

Altaïr chuckled.

“I could be wrong. I’ll –“

“ – explain later, of course. Here we are.”

They entered the cell to find Astir resting quietly with her back against the wall. On seeing Altaïr, she stood up immediately. She looked from him to Malik with the unspoken question. Malik nodded.

“You wanted to talk to the Mentor,” he said by way of introduction.

Astir straightened herself and bowed politely, one hand over her heart.

“Mentor Ibn-La’Ahad,” she said evenly. “My name is Astir, from the bureau of the Order in Edessa. My mentor, Musa Al-Rahim, sent me to speak with you. I apologise that you find me here, and through my own fault.”

She looked up again.

From the corner of his eye, Malik watched Altaïr’s carefully expressionless face.

“ _Dai_ Malik tells me you refused to speak to anyone but me,” Altaïr said slowly.

“That is true, Mentor. Those were my orders.”

“He also tells me,” Altaïr continued in the same cold tone, “That you were caught below the fortress, after being told it was a forbidden area.”

“This is also true,” Astir confirmed. The slightly subservient tone of her introduction was fading.

“What were you doing there?”

“Seeing how safe that place would be,” Astir replied.

“Safe for what?” Malik snapped.

Astir swallowed. Altaïr waved his hand.

“There’s nothing you can say to me that _dai_ will not hear about.”

“I know, and that is fine,” Astir said. “But I am not sure how to answer. You see, Mentor, we do not know what this thing is, but mentor al-Rahim was worried enough to think of sending it to the safety of Masyaf.”

“What thing?” Altaïr whispered.

Astir waved her hands in a helpless gesture.

“A tablet of sorts, made of an odd metal, with strange markings on it. It is still in Edessa. I will tell you all I can, and answer all your questions, but some things I still do not know myself.”

She put her right hand across her heart again.

“I swear upon my life and that of Al-Rahim that I am telling the truth.”

Malik glanced again at Altaïr as Astir looked down. It was not even a whisper, but Malik could tell that a single word passed Altaïr’s lips.

“Shit.”

The three stood in silence for a moment in the light of the single torch.

“I must speak with you,” Astir repeated. Malik was surprised at the sincere, pleading tone.

“I still have Astir’s weapons,” he offered. “And she does not seem intent on running away.”

Altaïr nodded.

“Take a moment to yourself, if you wish,” he said. “We shall wait outside this door. Then we can talk.”

Once on the other side of the door, the two men looked at each other.

“This I did not expect,” Malik admitted. Altaïr chewed on his lip.

“Another one,” he said. “Fuck.”

Malik could not help himself.

“You summed it up with such eloquence,” he sniggered. Altaïr gave him a gentle, almost symbolic, shove.

“Stop sniggering, or I shall start asking eloquent questions of you,” he whispered with a nasty grin. Malik grimaced back at him, not understanding.

The cell door opened. Astir waited meekly, hands clasped together in front of her. At Altaïr’s gesture, she began climbing the stairs in front of them. As they walked behind her, Malik hissed under his breath.

“What questions, you ass?”

Altaïr did not reply. He motioned for Astir to enter one of the side rooms by the library.

Malik seized the brief moment.

“Ask me what?” he hissed again.

Altaïr grinned.

“For example, how did she end up covered in a rafiq’s cloak with one sleeve sewn up?” He patted Malik on the shoulder.

“Fuck you,” Malik whispered back.

“So eloquently said,” Altaïr smiled. “Close your mouth and look serious, brother. Let’s hear this story.”


	6. The pool of sacred fish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: borderline NSFW - absolutely NOT non-con, even by implication

Hands and face washed, seated in one of the chairs in the library, Astir looked older and more serious. Or perhaps it was the gravity of purpose that dissipated the petulant, almost childish airs from the previous days.

“Have either of you ever been to Edessa?” Astir asked. Both men shook their heads.

“There is a lake in the city,” Astir began. “People say that in the days of king Nimrod, father Ibrahim was sentenced to death by burning. However, when the fire was lit, God intervened and the fires under Abraham were changed into waters of the lake. Some say that the pieces of the wood that fed the fire were changed into fish. To this day, the pool and the fish are sacred.”

Malik and Altaïr exchanged glances.

“In the days of Ibrahim?” Altaïr said. “That is centuries ago, if it ever happened.”

Astir nodded. “Well before Jesus of Nazareth and the Hijra, yes. There is also a ruined house in Edessa that people call the House of Ayyub.”

Malik thought for a moment.

“Iyyob, the one the Franks call Job,” he said. “God visited all manner of afflictions on him in order to test his faith.”

“That is right,” Astir said. “And then Ayyub was cured from all his ills, much like Ibrahim from his burns.”

She looked down for a moment, perhaps unsure how to continue. The afternoon sun painted crossed lines on the stone floor.

“And then there was the Mandylion,” Astir went on. “It was a miraculous painting of Jesus of Nazareth, held in the Greek church. Again, it healed the sick, or cursed the unfaithful. But that one was taken by the Greeks to Constantinopolis long ago.”

“Those are all old legends,” Altaïr said firmly. “Why mention them now?”

As Astir spoke, her hand moved slowly, as though trying to mold the things she spoke of out invisible clay.

“When the Franks lost Edessa all those years ago, Al-Rahim told us, there was still a church by the lake, where that painting used to be. Sometimes it was a church, sometimes a mosque. But the _atabeg_ soon decided that a greater mosque should be built. The buildings by the lake were torn down.”

Her hands moved down slowly, as though she herself was diving into the water.

“There were tunnels below the old church, know to the Brotherhood and very few others. They would be exposed once the workmen started digging the foundations for the new mosque. Al-Rahim wanted to make sure nothing was left in there that would compromise us.”

Now both Malik and Altaïr leaned in.

“What did you find there?” Altaïr asked quietly.

Astir shook her head.

“This was when Al-Rahim was a young man, before I was born,” she explained. “The tunnels, it turned out, ran deeper, almost lower than the lake. That’s where they found it.”

“Found what, exactly?” Malik interrupted.

Astir’s hands waved in the air, their path lost. She looked at the nearby desk still covered with sheets of parchment and quills.

“Help yourself,” Altaïr said. They both watched as she pulled up a sheet of paper and a quill and started drawing, somewhat hesitantly, a shape that looked like a chessboard.

“It is about the size of that,” she said, pointing to the chessboard nearby. “But it is not…”

She added a few details to the drawing, one of which looked like a hand.

“There is a shape on it like a human hand, and little studs that can be moved, like pieces on a board,” she went on. “But the board is strange, like intertwined ladders.”

She drew a snaking shape, and then stopped. She put the quill down and turned back to the two men, her hands tracing the shape of a ladder in the air.

“Imagine a ladder,” she said. “But wide, wider than usual. And then – “ her hands turned sideways – “Imagine it twisted, like a cord or a rope, so that it curves.”

Her finger traced a spiral in the air.

Malik and Altaïr frowned.

“You said it was made of metal,” Altaïr prompted.

Astir nodded.

“It is a metal, but a strange one. It does not chip, it does not rust. According to Al-Rahim, sometimes the lines of the ladders glow like gold, or brighter.”

Now Malik and Altaïr exchanged worried glances.

“What does it do?” Malik asked.

Astir looked at him.

“We dare not find out,” she said quietly. “One of the brothers who went to retrieve it touched it, and made it glow. He fell dreadfully ill later and died in agony. But some years later, one of the members of the order fell ill with leprosy. He shut himself into a room with that tablet, determined to find out how it worked, since his days were numbered anyway.”

Astir shivered.

“He was cured of it,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “He walked out of that room a healthy man.”

“And your mentor saw this?” Altaïr asked.

Astir nodded.

“We do not understand what it is,” she repeated. “Al-Rahim does not let anyone touch it. I think we are all – “

She shut her eyes.

“You are scared of it,” Altaïr said, but not unkindly.

Malik looked at the awkward drawing and tried to add up numbers in his head.

“How long ago was this?” he asked suddenly. “The Franks lost Edessa before any of us here were born.”

“Years and years,” Astir replied. “The story of the leper, that was before I was born. Al-Rahim has found out every legend and story for miles around Edessa, and spoken to any surviving Christians he could find, but found nothing.”

Malik stood up and leaned across the desk towards the assassin from Edessa.

“In other words,” he said slowly. “Musa Al-Rahim has had this thing in his possession for years. Why come to us now?”

Astir looked from Malik to Altaïr, then back at the floor. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Do I need to ask again?” Malik growled.

“You could, _dai_ ,” came the response. “But I fear neither of you will like the answer.”

Now she looked straight at Altaïr.

“He did not trust Rashid Sinan,” Astir said. “The one you called Al-Mualim.”

For a moment, Malik thought Altaïr would swear again. He did not. Instead, he sat down opposite Astir.

“I am sorry,” Astir offered. “That is what he told me. And he said he had known Mentor Sinan for a long time.”

“And he was right, as it turns out,” Altaïr said softly. “And Al-Mualim is now dead, as your Mentor has obviously heard. But what reason has he got to trust me?”

Astir gave a small smile.

“I asked him much the same thing, Mentor,” she said almost cheerfully. “He said that he would trust any person wise enough to see through the fine words to the enormous hubris of Rashid Sinan.”

Malik watched the two shapes against the afternoon glow, one sharp, taut, eyes glowing like the bird for which he was named, and the other, slightly younger, and curiously unafraid in face of that gaze. They looked at each other intently, Altaïr probably trying to gage what trap could be waiting behind this story, and Astir, cautious, as though trying to read in Altaïr’s face what the future might bring.

Inappropriately, delighted shouting and a clanging of metal pots was heard from the bailey below them. Astir turned her face to the window. The next moment, she self-consciously pressed a hand to her stomach.

Altaïr’s deathly serious face cracked into a smile.

“That lamb does smell good,” he said. Astir nodded.

“There’s fresh bread as well, I think,” she said.

Altaïr’s smile widened.

“Then go and eat. We know where to find you.”

She stood up with a small bow. As she walked past the desk, her eyes fell on the chess board, the pieces still as Malik had left them the night before. Her eyes widened.

“May I ask you something, Mentor?” Astir said, eyes still on the board, one finger curling around her chin.

“Ask me,” Altaïr said, looking altogether too amused.

“What was the last move played?” She asked. Malik watched as Altaïr pointed to the white _fil_ Malik had moved the night before.

The young woman’s eyes roamed over the black and white squares.

“Dangerous,” she said. “Not quite foolish, but dangerous.”

“Why is that?” Altaïr wanted to know.

“It creates a dangerous opening,” she said, hand hovering over the pieces, but careful not to touch them. “If the opponent knows what to look for, they could win in five moves or so.”

Malik looked up from the chess game to see Altaïr’s smirking face.

“I think you are right, Astir,” Altaïr said. “You can go now. We need to talk over what you said.”

She bowed slightly and left the room.

Malik walked up to the board.

“Do you think she is likely to do something foolish?” he muttered.

Altaïr tapped a finger on the crude drawing.

“It sounds like they need our help more than anything else,” Altaïr said. “And she did not even ask about the Apple. I have to think on this.”

Malik nodded.

“Let me know if you need help with that difficult task,” he offered.

Altaïr looked up. “Bold words from someone likely to lose in five moves,” he chuckled. “I knew you had been distracted.”

***

Malik had no reason to return to the dungeon later that night, but he could not stop himself. In the dark, he opened the door to the cell, then started in surprise. Astir was there, firmly shackled to the wall once more.

He knew for certain they had released her. She smiled at him, and he wondered what trickery this was.

“This is foolish,” Malik said earnestly. “Talk to me.”

She ignored him.

“I am tired of this game,” he growled, voice rising. “Talk to me!”

Astir looked at him. In front of his disbelieving eyes, she ran her tongue over her lips.

“I am not a novice,” she whispered with a sly smile.

Malik’s hand wrapped around her neck. She tilted her head up, her lips parting slightly.

“You arrogant whore,” he gasped, stepping closer. Before he knew it, he was pressed against her, feeling the hot beat of the blood in her neck, and his tongue sinking between the parted lips. He could barely breathe, yet he pressed closer, hearing her chuckle even as their tongues entwined.

He would not let her move, he would not let her touch him, but somehow he was free of his robes, or enough of his robes. He heard nothing but her gasps and the soft clink of the chains. Strong legs wrapped around his waist, gripping tightly. The walls of the room shrank around them as Malik went on kissing – no, this was well beyond mere kissing - no longer able to tell the chuckles from gasps or moans. One hand still around her neck, he yanked viciously on the chains with his other hand –

Malik woke up.

It was not the first time that the use of the missing left arm alerted him that he was dreaming. He had grown used to that uncomfortable trick of his mind. Nonetheless, as he stared into the ceiling above his bed, the discomfort of the dream would not fade.

Realising that sleep would not return, he left the bed. He washed and dressed himself. He would find something to do, rather than go back to sleep and risk another nightmare.

Candle in hand, he made his way to his desk. The vague feeling of disgust would not leave. He searched for the source of discomfort like a man trying to feel a thorn in his clothes. It would not leave even as he collected the papers and a few volumes he wanted. And then, just as he sat down, he found it.

It had not been a nightmare. If he were honest with himself, and there was never any point being otherwise, he had been, in fact, quite disappointed to wake up.

He ran his hand over his face, shuddered and went back to his work.


	7. Marching orders

Malik had realised early on in his work as an Assassin that the sight of two people whispering always attracted more attention than a natural conversation at a stroll. He had earnestly tried to impart this advice whenever he could. In keeping with this, the _dai_ of Masyaf and Altaïr often did most of their planning while walking about. If someone overheard them, it meant that they had found a promising spy, Altaïr had pointed out.

“Have you had time to think?” Malik asked as they walked along the battlements.

Altaïr grunted.

“Yes. It should be investigated. It could be a dangerous thing, or a dangerous plot. Either way, we should learn more about it. Even if it is nothing, at least we shall learn more about the situation in Edessa.”

A small flock of pigeons took off at their approach. Malik picked a stray feather off his sleeve.

“According to what our visitor told me, it is quite different from Masyaf.”

After Astir had had her fill of food the day before – but before the unquiet night, which he would not mention to Altaïr – she had shown up before Malik, much to his irritation.

“ _Dai_ , if I am no longer a prisoner, may I have my things back?” she asked politely.

“Your things, yes. Your weapons, no,” Malik replied. She nodded her understanding. Malik motioned for her to follow.

“I still do not understand your little game of posing as a novice,” Malik said as she followed him along the corridors.

“I did not mean to deceive,” Astir explained. “Truly, these are the only robes I have. When you first addressed me as a novice, it seemed impolite to correct you. And later I saw no reason to bring it up. You outrank me anyway.”

“And the glove?” Malik asked.

“It is a habit,” she said calmly. “People would remember a detail like that, a woman with a missing finger. My mentor advised it.”

The word reminded Malik of something else.

“You keep calling Al-Rahim the mentor,” he said. “I thought he was a _rafiq_ in Edessa.”

Astir stopped and stared at him.

“You people really live and die by these ranks,” she said.

“Is that a problem? I thought they applied all over the order.”

“Perhaps here, where you sit in a fortress playing soldiers,” she laughed. “There is no walled fortress with a smith and a vassal village for us in Edessa. We have to rely on wits instead.”

Malik, who was about to enter the room where he had locked her weapons, turned around, his hand still on the door.

“And how does that serve you?” he growled. “If you have cast off all other custom, that is?”

Astir flushed.

“It serves us well, _dai_ ,” she hissed. “As well as it can. While your Al-Mualim was playing at war and building his army, we were left on our own. Anyone plowing through Edessa killed or enslaved the ones who had been there before. All our allies who were Christian have been slaughtered or sold into slavery. Before that, it was the Count of Edessa who threw people out onto the street. We hide, _dai_ , that is what we do. We hide from our families, we hide from our kings.”

The mention of families confused Malik, and he told her as much. Again she flushed.

“We don’t have a village to feed us. Al-Rahim runs a caravan-serai, and with the money from it, he raises and helps those he comes across. He collected us from the roads and from the streets. What do ranks mean to us? They are for soldiers and for nobles, and for people in Masyaf.”

Malik handed her the saddlebags.

“Ranks or no ranks,” he said testily. “It sounds like the Order in Edessa has been going its own way for some time.”

Astir took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When she next spoke, she was no longer shouting.

“If it is so, it is because you left us. Your precious Al-Mualim was unconcerned with us. We were useless to him.”

She pulled her hood up, perhaps so she would not look at Malik.

“I am sorry if calling Musa Al-Rahim a mentor insults you,” she muttered, not sounding very apologetic at all. “But he is one, and a kind one at that. I am loyal to him, not to his rank.”

“I should hope you are loyal to the Order,” Malik managed to say quite calmly, fighting down the urge to yell.

“I am here, am I not?” Astir said.

Refusing to be drawn into another argument, Malik sent her on her way.

Now he relayed the conversation to a very attentive Altaïr .

“There is something to what she says about armies and hiding,” Altaïr grumbled. “The thought has crossed my mind.” He stopped and nodded towards the bailey.

“We are being watched,” he said with a small smile.

Malik followed the direction of Altaïr’s gaze. There was Astir, leaning against a stone wall, seemingly watching the goings-on in the training area. She looked up at them.

They walked on.

“Young, stubborn, and not a little arrogant,” Altaïr commented. “And possibly good at chess.”

“If it weren’t for the last thing you said, I’d say that she reminds me of you,” Malik said dryly as they walked back into the keep.

“Be that as it may,” Altaïr went on once they were back in his study. “This needs to be investigated. You can go with her to Edessa.”

Malik looked around Altaïr’s study, then closed the door. This done, he felt he could speak more freely.

“Why me?” he almost yelled.

“You don’t expect me to go, do you?” Altaïr laughed, settling himself behind his desk.

“If it is another piece of trickery, like that damned apple, you should –“

Altaïr raised a threatening finger.

“I am not going to carry that thing along bandit-ridden roads and up the Euphrates,” he said firmly.

Now Malik leaned over the desk.

“You would send me? Why not someone else?”

“Because,” Altaïr explained softly, as though speaking to a petulant child, “You have seen these things before. You were not affected the last time. And I trust your judgement more than anyone else’s.”

Malik decided he was too angry to acknowledge the compliment.

“In case you have not noticed, I have a few responsibilities here,” he pointed out.

“Indeed you do,” Altaïr nodded. “As you had last year, when you complained and howled about not being sent on any missions.”

Malik retreated.

“We both know how that ended,” he muttered. “And now you want to send me half way across the land, with a possibly untrustworthy stranger in tow. A cripple and a woman with a sword. A wonderful pair.”

Altaïr pressed his fingers to his temples.

“Then don’t travel armed to the teeth,” he said. “Travel as a scholar on his way to Edessa, or some such. I’m sure that your hair-splitting intellect can come up with something.”

“With whom?”

Altaïr threw his hands up.

“How should I know? Your cousin, your sister-in-law, your servant… Think of something.”

“Amusing,” Malik commented.

“Do I need to give you a direct order, Malik?”

Malik motioned expansively.

“Oh, how things change. Yes, please.”

Altaïr stood up.

“Very well. Take two horses, take what you need and go with Astir back to Edessa. Find out what that thing is, what help they want from us, and decide what is to be done. Then return and report. Simple enough?”

Malik could do nothing but shake his head.

“Unbelievable,” he grimaced.

“What is unbelievable is how much you are complaining about it,” Altaïr sniffed. “Then again, complaining is one your many talents. Did you have any other questions?”

The best Malik could manage was an exaggerated bow.

“I hear and obey,” he said snidely. “Don’t go blind from staring into that damned Apple while I am gone.”

Altaïr picked up a scroll from the desk.

“Your concern is touching,” he grinned. “You have two days to get ready, then get lost. Unless you need more instructions?”

And with that, and a heartfelt insult, which Altaïr ignored, Malik was temporarily dismissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “As you had last year, when you complained and howled about not being sent on any missions.”
> 
> “We both know how that ended.”
> 
> This one I must credit, as it's a direct reference to [Timelines: Syria 1193](https://tapas.io/series/Assassins-Creed-Fan-Comic)


	8. The road unwinds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Ever so slight NSFW implications

Another thing that Astir of Edessa had not lied about was her unfamiliarity with horse riding. Malik himself had needed to adjust his riding style to compensate for the lost arm. Astir navigated the narrow road from Masyaf at the gentlest of trots, riding far slower than he ever did. The sound of hooves echoed in the closed walls of the canyon.

The wide road opened before them as they left the shadow of the hills around Masyaf. They would make better time now, and probably travel even faster once they reached the wider river plain to the north.

Leaves of olive trees rustled around them. Astir, now dressed in woman’s travelling clothes, pulled her headscarf up to shield her from the sun.

“We head north, I take it,” Malik said.

Astir nodded, nudging her horse into a trot.

“What lies to the south?” she asked as they descended towards the larger road. “This is as far as I have travelled this way.”

Malik caught up to her.

“Damascus, lake Tabariya,” he offered. “And Jerusalem, of course.”

As he said that, Astir reined in the horse. She gazed south towards the distant hills. Malik heard her say something he did not quite understand.

“Say that again,” he asked.

“ _Im eshkachech Yerushalayim, tishkach yemeeni_ ,“ she repeated more slowly, still looking to the south. Malik frowned in concentration.

“If I forget you, Jerusalem, may my right arm forget me,” he said cautiously.

Astir turned to him with a surprised smile.

“Yes,” she nodded.

Malik thought back on the names and Altaïr’s musings.

“You are Jewish,” he guessed.

Astir nudged the horse into a trot again.

“I was born Jewish,” she confirmed. “Hebrew is my mother tongue.”

The road having widened, they rode side by side. Hooves sounded softly in the thick, dry dust.

“And now?” Malik asked quietly.

“I am not sure anymore,” she said after a moment. “I can pass for most things, but the honest answer is that I am an Assassin.”

“Is that why you said you had two names?” Malik asked with a smile.

She nodded again.

“Astir is the name Al-Rahim gave me, and what they call me in the Order,” she explained. “My first given name is Hadassah.”

Malik felt a sort of relief at yet another suspicion being confirmed as irrelevant.

“Hadi,” he said. “What should I call you, then?”

Astir shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable.

“Astir is fine, _dai_ ,” she said. “Only those very fond of me, or those who know me well, still call me Hadi.”

“Astir is not a very common name,” Malik offered, hoping to ease her discomfort.

“It must have been Al-Rahim’s little joke,” Astir said uneasily. She even hunched a little, as though trying to sink back under her veil.

Malik felt sorry for her.

“You still speak Hebrew well,” he offered.

“Thank you,” she said. “Do you speak all the languages of the Book, _dai_?”

He had to think for a moment.

“Not equally well,” he said. “But I can make myself understood in Hebrew, at least. And I think I never learned Frankish languages properly.”

As they took a turn in the road, Astir cast one more glance southwards.

“You have never been to Jerusalem?” Malik asked as they rode on.

“Never,” came the response. “Nor had anyone in my family. Yet we are all seemingly born and we all seemingly die yearning for Jerusalem.”

She smiled.

“Or for what is left of the Temple, at least,” she shrugged.

“A few walls, a courtyard,” Malik muttered, half to himself. He heard a gasp.

“You have seen it, _dai_?”

He could have kept his mouth shut, Malik admitted to himself.

“I was the _rafiq_ of the Jerusalem bureau for a while,” he said. “I’ve seen plenty of it, I suppose.”

There was a small sound, as though Astir started to speak, then changed her mind. Her face was brimming with unasked questions.

“What did you want to know about Jerusalem?” he prompted, taking pity on her.

“What is it like?”

Malik picked his words carefully, like a man picking a path across slippery, uneven ground.

“Dark,” he said. “The streets are narrow, the houses crowded together. On some days, it feels like the entire world is trying to move into Jerusalem,” he said cautiously.

“And the Temple?” Astir asked quietly.

Darker still, he wanted to say, but stopped himself.

“Not much to see,” he said slowly. “Qubbat al-Sakhrah sits on what is left of the walls, I am afraid.”

“Is that the mosque with the golden dome?” Astir asked.

The dome would glow in each sunset, Malik remembered. It spun the rays of the setting sun around itself like threads of molten honey. It gifted Jerusalem with a second sun as shadows spread below the city walls. People would turn to it in adoration and he would look away.

“It does look like molten gold,” he confirmed.

“Is that where the Foundation stone sits?” Astir asked. “With the well of souls beneath it?” 

“Yes,” he said, looking away.

He remembered the Well of Souls and its apparent entrance to the underworld. It was a passage so short that a child could climb into it and out again. But there is a maw beneath the Well of Souls that does descend into eternal darkness, he thought to himself. It had opened for him in the crudely carved tunnels beneath the Temple Mount. It had gaped wider, and wider, and then its stone teeth had clamped shut.

When he had next seen it, the maw of the beast was long asleep and the pathway to the land of the dead quiet once more. It would not open for him. It left the bones for Malik to collect, and allowed him to return to the city of Jerusalem.

“Not much to see,” he muttered.

***

They did make better progress on the main road, as Malik had hoped. The afternoon still found them a fair distance from Hama. The lonely patch of the road revealed no houses or farms nearby. Here and there they passed low stone walls, some overgrown, some crumbling.

The evening promised to be warm. With the horses watered and the sky clear, Malik considered simply settling down under the open sky for the night. It would cost less, too.

They passed a tidy row of trees. Astir stood in the stirrups for a moment.

“I see a house, but it is quite far,” she said, looking around. “Good.”

“Good?”

She pointed at the trees by the road.

“Figs,” she grinned. “Good, ripe figs.”

Malik could not resist.

“Stealing fruit from the side of the road? Hardly a _mitzvah_.”

Astir dismounted.

“Let it be a _zakat_ for us weary travellers,” she said calmly. “ _Dai,_ would you mind leading the horse a little way?”

Malik rode a short distance, then stopped by a large olive tree in the bend of the road. He peered back with some curiosity.

Astir walked slowly along the road, like someone weary. She sat down on the low stone wall, stomping her foot a few times to scares away any snakes. There was still no one in sight.

She lifted the edges of her robe and tied them quickly around her waist. The veil came off next and she wrapped it roughly around her head. One more glance, and she flipped over the wall, becoming all but invisible in the grass.

He spotted her again high up the fig tree. Perched comfortably in the branches, she picked the ripe fruit with impressive speed. The figs were tucked into a fold of the robe. She shimmied down the tree quietly. Malik looked away.

When she appeared next to him, it was once more as a modestly dressed traveller, but with an armful of figs. Malik had to admit the fruit smelled good. It would be a welcome addition to an otherwise dry evening meal.

They found a quiet spot some distance from the road as the evening fell. Fig skins piled up in front of Astir. Malik munched on the fruit, amazed at the sheer dedication and speed with which she ate every piece, leaving the skins without so much as a single seed on them.

He kept an eye on horses tied up nearby. Moonlight glinted off the metal studs on the harness and the handle of Astir’s sword. The bright lines reminded Malik of the reason for the journey.

“What do you think the tablet from Edessa is?” he asked suddenly. “Why do you think it heals at one time and kills at another?”

Astir finished her last fig.

“I wish I knew,” she shook her head. “Perhaps it is damaged. Perhaps it is a piece of something larger, or a piece is missing. Or, most likely, we do not know how to use it.”

Malik thought about the Apple glowing in Altaïr’s hands.

“Are there any markings on it that you recognise?” he tried again.

Astir thought for a moment.

“None that look like written words,” she said. “There are those ladders, and lines, and the vague markings of a human palm. If there is something written on it, it is not in a language any of us can read.”

“I may have seen something similar before,” Malik said carefully. “A device of sorts. But that one had no writing on it either.”

He leaned back against the nearby tree.

“Where do you think it came from?” he asked. “Other than from the tunnels below the lake, obviously.”

Astir toyed with a twig, snapping it in two.

“It may be old. Old things are often found in the ruins. And in Edessa, every time you tear down a house, there is an older one below.”

The tip of the twig traced ladder-like shapes in a small patch of dust before her.

“It could be older than the Prophets,” she went on. “Perhaps it was a thing from another age, swept up in the great flood, and carried from God knows where.”

“I wondered about that,” Malik said. “Many stories talk of a greater age before ours.”

Astir nodded.

“Torah teaches that the Fathers like Ibrahim and his sons lived for hundreds of years. Perhaps they knew something we have forgotten.”

Malik nodded.

“I hope you or Mentor Ibn-La’Ahad can make sense of it,” Astir said hopefully.

“Do you think your mentor would part with it?” Malik asked her.

“I do not see why not. It has been nothing but a worry and a burden,” Astir replied.

Malik tugged on one of the blankets under the saddlebags.

“We should try to make better time tomorrow,” he said. “The sooner we reach Edessa, the faster we can relieve you of the burden. Now get some rest.”

***

He stood in front of Altaïr’s large desk. The room was dark, but strange lights flickered over the items on the desk. Odd lumps of rock, shards of sword blades and scraps of parchment lay scattered across the surface. He watched them all intently, but to no avail.

Astir stood next to him, muttering something he could not understand.

“You’re not making any sense,” he said to her. “Put that thing away.”

She mumbled again, pressing a hand against her mouth in discomfort.

“It will hurt you,” he said again. “Put it down.”

Somehow, he was now standing behind her. His arms wrapped around her. Her hand reached into her mouth and pulled out a small key, crisscrossed with the same lines he had seen on the Apple. She grimaced as though in pain.

“Leave it alone,” Malik whispered. The thick dark hair felt cool and smooth under his cheek. Every firm curve felt equally smooth under his hands.

“Leave it,” Malik repeated. “Please, Hadi.”

She dropped the odd key on the table. Malik pulled her closer against his chest. It all fitted so well.

“Better,” he whispered against the white skin of her neck. It felt so very warm.

“Dai,” she whispered, molding to his hands. Malik closed his eyes and tried to taste the warm skin.

“Dai,” she called out again, but more urgently this time. He shuddered, suddenly feeling like he would fall over.

“Dai!” he heard once more. And then, “Wake up!”

It was a low, urgent hiss, accompanied by a hand roughly shaking his shoulder.

Malik opened his eyes to see Astir crouching next to him.

“We need to leave,” she whispered. “Someone just tried to steal our horses.”

Malik sat up. He looked over her shoulder. Both animals were still grazing where they had tied them off for the night. He looked from the horses back to Astir. Part of him wondered desperately if he was still dreaming.

“Who was it?” he croaked, throat still dry.

“I don’t know,” Astir said. “But he was alone. I knocked him out.”

Now Malik felt awake.

“Did you kill him?”

She shook her head. “I did not try to,” she said. “But he could be from one of the houses nearby. I think we had better go before he wakes up.”

Malik knelt by the unfortunate horse thief. The man was alive, but still unconscious. Malik did not envy him the aching head he would have in the morning.

“Well done,” he said to her as they mounted. She nodded her thanks.

The moon was still high. They got on the horses and made their way back to the road. Malik let Astir lead the way. He felt grateful for the late hour, for not seeing her face, and for not letting her see his.

Suddenly he heard her chuckle. His breath caught.

“Something amusing?” he hissed.

“That thief may have been from the house we saw,” the quiet voice ahead of him said merrily. “If we had lost the horses, those would have been the costliest figs from here to Damascus.”

Malik tried to smile in response, but it turned into a grimace. He merely grunted his assent instead.

They rode on slowly in the quiet night.


	9. The disobedient one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: A caravansaray, or saray for short, was a type of road inn common along the Silk Road. They were heavily used by merchant caravans and other travellers. [More info](https://medium.com/the-unbox-caravan/a-brief-history-of-caravanserais-10445eea6984)

Their clothes damp with dew, the two travellers saw the first band of sunlight as they neared the Orontes river. The deep green ribbon of water wound through the fields. As the sun rose, the river brightened. Further along its course, the morning sunlight cast a wash of pink over the city walls of Hama. An imposing square minaret towered over the city.

The calls of the wading birds were slowly drowned out by the crowing of cockerels. The mist on the river gave way to the white smoke from the chimneys. Malik and Astir rode on silently, followed by the half-hearted barks of the village dogs. The fishing boats moved languidly in the green water.

The noises of animals were replaced by voices and shouts as they neared the gates of Hama. After the relative quiet of Masyaf hills and the two days on the road, even the chatter of the early risers and merchants opening the market stalls sounded like a din. Malik pulled more firmly on the reins. The uneasy, interrupted rest on the road left him feeling far less alert than he would have liked. It had been a while since he had ridden long and slept rough. With tiredness came anger, both at the ruined night and his own apparent weakness. He forced himself to sit up straighter.

He looked at Astir. She was slouched in the saddle, jerking on the reins half-heartedly every time she veered too close to a cart or a stall by the roadside. By noon, with the sun beating down on them, they would both be drooping. Through the gate, Malik could see the city streets already swarming with people. He looked up at the imposing minaret with its octagonal crown. In another hour or so, the call to prayer would sound. The thought of finding a way through the noise, tired horses in tow, suddenly felt overwhelming. They had no business in the city itself, anyway.

He rode up to Astir. “We need to rest the horses. Do you know of any places nearby?”

“There is a saray on the other side of the city walls,” Astir muttered tiredly. “It is clean enough.”

At the gates of the saray, the previous night’s caravans sluggishly made their way out of the walled compound. With their departure, the small courtyard grew quiet. Two women swept out the debris of the previous night’s travellers. Malik gratefully washed his face at a small fountain nearby. Astir had settled down under a canvas shade. The small sack of provisions rested untouched next to the bundle that hid her sword.

Malik sat down on the bench next to her.

“Are you not hungry?”

“I am trying not to fall asleep,” she said. “Forgive me, _dai_. I am not a very good traveller.”

“You made it to Masyaf,” Malik pointed out. She nodded, leaning against the wall and closing her eyes.

They took turns dozing in the now quiet courtyard. Malik noted with approval that Astir slept with her sword tucked behind her, wrapped in cloths like a pillow, and her foot discreetly entangled with the saddlebags. Some time later, he allowed himself a short nap, head resting against the cool stone wall. He listened to the chatter of people, the muffled noises of the stabled animals and the tinkling of water in the stone basin of the fountain. He thought back on Jerusalem, and then tried to think about nothing at all.

He opened his eyes to see a small pile of freshly cooked food before him. Astir was seated cross-legged on the ground, smiling like a proud hunter back from a kill.

“What is this?” Malik asked muzzily.

She patted her belt. Coins jingled in the well-hidden pouch.

“It is already paid for,” she said.

In-between mouthfuls, Astir was trying to think.

“There should be at least two more places like this from here to Aleppo,” she said. “We may be able to reach the next one before the gates close.”

Malik frowned.

“Is that the way you took?”

Astir shook her head.

“There is a shorter way through the hills,” she explained. “Not as comfortable, but it may have saved me a day or so.”

“Then we should take that,” Malik said firmly.

Astir looked up, a piece of bread halfway to her mouth.

“That is a far more dangerous road, especially at night” she said. “And resting the horses may be a lot harder.”

“You did it,” he pointed out.

“I said it was a shorter way,” she quipped. “I did not say it was the wiser option.”

“We’re taking the shorter way,” Malik stated.

The piece of bread dropped from Astir’s hand.

“It’s not going to be shorter if we run into bandits,” she argued. “Or do you want to wake up with the horses gone?”

Malik blinked at the belligerent tone. Kneeling on the ground, Astir shook the crumbs off the blanket she had used to serve the food.

“If we stay here tonight, the horses may be able to take it, but it is still unwise,” she said.

“We’re not wasting any more time here. In fact, we leave now.”

Halfway through lovingly wrapping up the leftover food, Astir looked up. Her lips and chin were still shiny from the rich meal.

“Now? But then we’ll get caught at the worst stretch at sunset!” she complained.

“Keep your voice down,” Malik warned.

In response, she said something equally loudly, but in Hebrew. Malik couldn’t believe his ears.

“Well then,” he replied in Arabic. “If I do know best, go clean yourself up and get the horses. And then we leave.”

He matched her shocked stare with his own angry one. The back of his neck was tingling.

“That was an order, in case I was not clear enough,” he hissed. The moment the words left his mouth, he thought of Altaïr’s grinning face.

Astir stood up, shook the last of the crumbs off her clothes, and walked away towards the stables without another word.

Malik ran his hand over his face as though the motion would wipe the memory of Altaïr’s smirk. A gravelly chuckle made him turn around.

An old man sat on a bench nearby, his hands on a walking stick. He chuckled again.

“You know,” the old man said, pointing to Malik with the walking stick. “You still have another good arm, my son. You can still give her one across the mouth with it.”

Malik thought quickly and decided that a vague smile may be the best response.

“I still have better uses for my arm than that,” he said.

The old man chuckled again, but quite amiably.

“It is your own choice, son,” he said merrily. “But mark my words, a wife so pretty yet so disobedient is a world of trouble.”

Perhaps god is indeed merciful, Malik thought to himself, as Altaïr would never learn of this conversation.

“I’ll remember that,” he said, hoisting up the saddlebags. “Peace be upon you, sir.”

“And on you, son,” the old man called as Malik walked away.

He found the horses already saddled. Astir held his horse in place next to the low stone stoop that made getting in the saddle that much easier.

Seeing the politely downcast gaze and the helpful stance, Malik chuckled, then laughed.

“What is wrong, _dai_?” Astir asked cautiously.

“A nosey old man overheard our argument,” Malik explained. “He’s just advised me to use my remaining hand to deck my wife over the mouth.”

Astir’s laugh sounded a little strained.

“What would you need another wife for, _da_ _i_ ,” she muttered, busying herself with the reins. They made their way towards the gate of the saray.

“Another wife?” Malik asked, genuinely confused. “I don’t even have one.”

“Forgive me,” Astir sputtered. “I meant no offense. And I have spoken out of turn.”

They passed from the shaded gates into the bright sunlight of the road.

“No harm done,” Malik said with a smile. “Lead the way, disobedient wife.”


	10. Blood on the road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:
> 
>   * Some violence, not too graphic
>   * TW - implied assault
>   * Some borderline NSFW implications... again
> 


In the following days, the passes and twists on the disused, narrow roads prevented much talking. Malik enjoyed two nights without any disturbances, be it dreams or horse thieves. What short conversations they had over the dry evening meal did explain Astir’s love of caravansarays.

Musa Al-Rahim, the head of the Order in Edessa, ran a small caravansaray within the city walls. People talked, mingled and occasionally even drank, as no one could be quite sure what travellers brought in their bottles and water skins. The Edessa bureau never lacked for information, Malik realised. Servants and horse grooms were invisible and forgettable. They could also listen attentively and report what they had heard.

“How did you end up working there?” he asked one evening as they sat by a small fire.

“By being bored out of my wits, mostly,” Astir chuckled. “Mine was a large family, and not very rich. My father had to contend with several children, and two older daughters to marry off. He could not keep an eye on all of us all of the time.”

“And you?” Malik asked.

It had been quite a dreary life, he gathered from Astir’s story. Things turned for the worse after her mother had died. A poor man with a flock of children had little chance of marrying again. His daughters, even less so. In the house where arguments broke out over every piece of bread, the little Astir took to wandering far and wide within the city. There was no entertainment better than the sight of caravans coming and going from the saray.

“I must have been sitting around that place like a stray dog with its tongue hanging out,” she admitted. “Al-Rahim offered me odd jobs in exchange for food.”

With food came a sort of education. She had never before met a stranger who knew so much about her, her people or a world that spanned further than Edessa in the north and Jerusalem in the south. Some of the other children listened quite attentively too. His own house, not far from the saray, was often beset by street-smart orphans, whom he tried to keep fed.

He also kept geese. For feathers, he said.

“Eventually, I told my family that I had found work,” Astir reminisced. “They left me alone. They had other worries.”

Her training complete, she rarely went home anymore, except when she had money to share. The day finally came when her eldest brother accosted her to ask how long she intended to embarrass them by working for a Muslim and eschewing the duties of a daughter.

“He is a promising scholar, my brother Moshe,” Astir explained to a very attentive Malik. “And therefore a very dedicated believer. And I was, by then, dedicated to the order.”

“How did you get out of that quandary?” Malik asked.

“I had two choices,” Astir said with a self-contented smile. “I took the easier one. I told him I had converted to the faith of Mohammad.”

“What was the other choice?”

“I was going to tell him I became a whore,” she said simply. Malik blanched.

“A courageous choice, either way,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “But a steep price to pay.”

Astir shrugged.

“Nothing is free,” she said. “But if one can name a price, it is acceptable.”

For his part, Malik answered her questions about life in Masyaf. He spoke of Jerusalem and told her of the last invasion from Europe. He had a lot of questions about her training. Astir was only a year or so younger than him, but her training had started comparatively later. While it had been less rigorous than what he and Altaïr – and Kadar! but he would not speak about that – had lived, it had taken place outside the comparatively safe confines of a fort.

In a few days, all talk ceased as they travelled across a relatively dry patch of land. Their own supply of water held up well. It would not, however, suffice for the horses.

After another hour, they both pulled up, not believing their luck. An old well stood next to an overgrown shack some distance from the road.

“I think I have ridden past this place,” Astir said. “But for all I know, that well may be dry.”

The well was not dry, and there was even an old cracked trough. As the animals drank their fill, Astir drew another bucket of water. Slipping her headscarf off, she doused herself with water.

Malik was just about to reach for the water himself when movement behind the shack caught his attention. He nudged Astir lightly.

Two men walked out into the small clearing, followed by a younger man.

“That is our well, friend,” the burliest of them addressed Malik. Astir hastily pulled up her headscarf.

“Forgive us,” Malik said calmly. “We did not see anyone to ask permission.”

The man nodded, still swaggering towards them.

“What is done is done, friend,” the man grinned. “But it will cost you.”

Astir looked at the ground, modestly tugging on her sleeves.

Malik nodded, noting the knives on their belts.

“Name your price,” he shrugged. He moved his hand to his own belt, where most people would carry a pouch of coins.

When the price came it was so exorbitant that Malik almost laughed.

“That is more coin than I have on me,” he said, shrugging. Astir was still staring at the ground.

“How much do you have?” the man insisted, coming closer.

“Less than you want, and I am not willing to part with it,” Malik growled.

The man pointed at Astir.

“Give us an hour with her, then. You’ll get her back, don’t worry.”

Malik’s finger’s hovered over the handle of the sword.

“That will not happen,” he assured them. He stepped back very slightly, putting more weight on his left leg.

He almost started at the sound of Astir’s voice.

“Do I not get a say in this?” she asked, suddenly looking up. “It is me you’re bargaining over, after all.”

The four men stared at her. She stepped towards the leader of the small gang.

“Don’t be foolish,” Malik hissed in Hebrew. She waved him off.

“An hour, is it, warrior?” She smiled at the man. “Come, let me see how long you can last.”

She beckoned with her right hand, stepping closer. As the man approached her, her hand flicked up. The hidden blade sliced cleanly into the man’s neck.

As Astir kicked the corpse away, the man next to her toppled backwards, one of Malik’s throwing knives lodged in his neck. The youngest man screamed and ran.

Astir was upon him in a moment, toppling him to the ground. She stood up as Malik approached. The youngest bandit stared in terror at the blood dripping off Astir’s hand.

“Mercy,” he croaked at seeing Malik approach with the sword drawn.

“What good is that?” Astir sniffed. “So that you can beset the next traveller that comes here?”

The bare-chinned fellow tried to push himself away, feet kicking in the dust.

“I will not, I swear,” he pleaded.

“Why not?” Malik asked. “Next time it may be someone truly defenceless.”

“Perhaps,” Astir said thoughtfully. “We could blind him and send him on his way.”

The pleading grew more desperate.

“Who were those men?” Malik asked the cowering youth.

“My brother,” the young man sobbed. “And a cousin, it was them –“

Astir gave him a kick. She shrugged at Malik.

“Then go and try to be a better man than your brother,” Malik said dryly. “Now get lost.”

With another kick for good measure, the youth ran away. The two watched him.

“We should leave,” Astir said. “He may come back with others.”

Malik sheathed his sword.

“Do you think you ought to have killed him instead?”

Astir shook her head.

“There was no need,” she said. “But we should still go.”

He let her drag the bodies out of sight, stopping only to retrieve his throwing knife.

“You do not seem to be in a great hurry to leave, _dai_ ,” Astir said as Malik cleaned the knife and took one last drink of water.

“I do not think he’ll rush to tell others,” Malik replied.

“Why not?”

Malik got on his horse.

“He will either need time to think of a good lie,” he explained as they rode off. “Or he will have to explain how he and his mighty cousins were bested by a woman and a one-armed man.”

Water still dripped from her hair and blood dripped from her sleeve. Inexplicably, Malik felt himself smiling.

“You did very well, Astir of Edessa,” he said warmly. “On both counts.”

To their relief, the following night they came across a small village. It had no inn, but a woman agreed to let them sleep in the small stable behind her house, for a pittance. A few planks were missing from the walls, but it made little difference in the warm night. They had been taking turns keeping watch. Tonight, perhaps, they could both sleep, Malik thought. He stretched out comfortably on a bundle of hay. A dog bayed in the distance. Distant voices called out good night to neighbours. A few feet from him, hay rustled as Astir wrapped herself more comfortably in her blanket. The sounds faded one after another as Malik drifted off to sleep.

He felt the hay shift under him as he moved. He reached for the rough blanket. His hand felt warm flesh instead. The hay was gone, he realised. He was lying on a pallet in a small, dark room. Astir knelt over him, straddling his hips.

“I can’t move, _dai_ ,” she said softly. He reached for her face.

“Then stay as you are,” he whispered. “I can still move.”

And move he did. He could not see her face clearly in the gloom, but his hand traced the shape of her neck, then her shoulder, then her chest. She was strangely quiet, he realised, but moved on him like flowing water.

“Say something, Hadi”, he said, running his fingers over her lips. He heard a gasp, then almost a scream.

“I don’t want to wake up,” he said helplessly. “Not yet, not yet.”

Now he did hear a scream, but it was a scream of rage, and it did wake him up. He was lying on his side. A ray of moonlight shone through the crack in the wall. Beyond it, he saw Astir’s face, eyes also open. She pointed to the door. The yelling outside continued.

Out in the yard, a woman was screaming angrily. They both listened for a moment. It sounded like the voice of their host. She was wondering, very loudly, how she had insulted God. After a few more moments, Malik realised that the curses were directed at her husband. He was late home and he had gambled again. By the raging voices from the yard, the game had not gone in his favour.

“Do you think she will turn us out?” Astir whispered.

Malik pretended to listen for a little longer. It allowed him to stay lying down until he felt confident enough to move.

“I doubt she would mention us at all,” he said after a while. He shifted slightly, grimacing.

“How so?”

Malik rolled over, reaching for his waterskin. He drank until he felt his heartbeat slow down. At least he could sit up, he figured.

“If she has a husband who wastes his money gambling, she is not likely to mention the money she got from us.”

They both turned to the door of the stable again. The noise had died down somewhat. Their hosts must have gone into the house. A moment later, they heard a pot smash and the wife’s voice rose in anger again.

Astir sat up.

“I was sleeping so soundly,” she sighed. “But she sounds like she could shout until dawn.”

Malik stared at the patch of moonlight on the ground. He would not sleep again, he was certain. His neck was burning once more.

“Nothing to do but wait,” he muttered. He shrunk from the bright silver ray. It felt altogether too revealing.

Astir’s hands glowed in the moonlight as she pulled her saddlebags closer.

“Then we should pass the time quietly,” she said, motioning towards the door. She pulled a square piece of wood from the saddlebags, followed by a small bag. Malik heard a soft chink as she put the bag down. She turned the piece of wood towards him with an enquiring glance. It was a chessboard, roughly finished, but useable.

“You travel with a chess set?” he hissed.

He picked up the board. The rough wood assured him that this was not yet another dream.

Astir smiled. “Not usually,” she whispered as Malik examined the board. “Mentor Ibn-La’Ahad gave me this before we set out from Masyaf.”

Malik allowed himself a moment to wistfully imagine cracking the board over Altaïr’s head at the first opportunity.

“Did he indeed,” he muttered.

“He said it may help pass the time on the road,” Astir said helpfully.

Malik placed the board between them. It would be safer than looking at the face from the dream. He reached into the bag of pieces and handed a white one to Astir.

The marital argument died down at last. The two went on playing in perfect silence. Moonlight was fading. Malik kept his eyes fixed on the board, and soon the game took over. The first few moves he had drawn without much thinking. To his surprise, his opponent seized the opportunity, forcing him to focus on the game alone. They both leaned in closer as the light faded, but neither suggested stopping the game.

After one of Malik’s moves, Astir sighed.

“I lose in four moves, six at the most,” she said.

“Without a doubt,” Malik muttered, still eyeing the board.

Astir picked up her king and offered it to him.

“Thank you for the game, _dai_ ,” she whispered.

Malik helped her put the pieces away. It was almost dawn now. The yard lay quiet. They refilled their water supply and rode off.


	11. The scholars of light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Some more killing.

The mighty citadel of Aleppo sat upon the hill like a crown. Even from the road, one could hear the sound of mallets and the calls of the builders. A whole side of the citadel was being reinforced.

Below the walls, the minaret of Banu Umayya mosque towered over the city. Malik gazed on it in appreciation. Against the bulwark of the citadel, it looked like a supple young tree, its heavy frame lightened by the intricate stonework on top.

Astir reined in her horse next to him.

“Aleppo is the greatest city I have ever seen,” she said. “Although it may not be much compared to Damascus or Jerusalem.”

“It is beautiful,” Malik nodded. He could not stop gazing at the minaret.

He counted silently as his eyes scaled the height of the tower. It would be a small leap, almost a step, from the beautiful diamond-shaped edges of the wall to the first segment of carved Quranic verses. From the arrow slit, probably large enough for a foothold, it would be a mere stretch to the second row of carved letters. Another good foothold on the small carved arch on the corner of the tower – he’d have to swing slightly to the right for that – and then a slightly more difficult part up the third segment, a good stretch to reach the next line of letters. From there, the elegantly curved arches began, and that would be child’s play to any well-trained assassin.

Child’s play to any assassin but him, he corrected himself.

“What did you say?” he snapped at Astir, voice made harsher by the lump he felt in his throat.

“I said that Aleppo was indeed beautiful, but also madly busy,” she repeated. “Do you want to press on?”

“There should be a bureau here,” he muttered, looking away from the glorious tower.

As they rode towards the city gates, Astir confirmed that there was indeed a bureau in Aleppo. She motioned over the city, pointing out the location of the bureau, the layout of the bazaar and the quarters of the city.

“Did you spend long here on the way to Masyaf?” Malik asked.

Astir’s gloved hand waved languidly towards the minaret.

“I’ve only passed through here once. But on a moonlit night, looking down from there is like looking at a map of the city.”

Malik winced, and then felt enraged at his own pang of envy.

“Tell me how you climbed it,” he said in a disinterested voice of a teacher questioning a student. Her method sounded much the same as his, he had to admit.

Their horses stabled, they made their way to the bazaar. Their supplies were getting dangerously low. They both eyed the open gates of the hamam, but resolutely shook their heads. Now that the tantalising shape of the minaret was out of sight, Malik felt somewhat better. Once among the food stalls, he made sure that Astir walked in front of him.

“Hands to yourself,” he grumbled. “They will feed us at the bureau.”

It was a ridiculous sight, he thought, marshalling her around the market and telling her what to pick and what to leave, his hand tucked safely in the coin pouch in his belt. Astir haggled like a master. She never passed up an offer to try the goods on display. Whatever she ate was added to the repertoire for haggling at the next stall. Once she was happy with the price, she would sheepishly turn to Malik with her hand out, changing from an omnivorous harridan to a meek and quiet helpmeet.

The performance came to an end as a man in the robes of a scholar stopped and looked at them.

“Forgive me, young woman,” he said, eyeing Astir curiously. “Do you by any chance hail from Edessa?”

Astir looked up, then bowed.

“Peace be upon you, sir,” she said with a small smile. “I do, and I think I remember you.”

The man smiled happily, and then looked up into Malik’s frowning face. He apologised deeply and introduced himself as Humam Ibn-Ahmad, a scholar and teacher at the nearby Al-Shibani madras.

Astir turned a meek and shy face towards Malik.

“Humam Ibn-Ahmad stayed several times at the saray in Edessa I told you about,” she said in a small voice. Malik quickly calculated the risk of getting caught in a lie or a half-truth. He nodded at Astir.

“Ah, during the time my wife worked for Al-Rahim?” he said lightly. “I’ve heard some of it.”

The scholar’s face split into a smile.

“Congratulations,” he said to Astir. “These are glad news.”

Malik introduced himself with as little detail as possible. Humam looked dangerously eager to talk.

“How is Musa Al-Rahim?” he asked happily. “I hope he thrives.”

“He was indeed when I last saw him,” Astir answered.

“And what do you do?” Humam asked Malik. “You have the look of a soldier about you.”

“Those days are gone,” Malik replied. “I make my living as a cartographer, mostly,” he said.

This was exciting news to the scholar. He insisted that they both accompany him to his quarters nearby. On one hand, the delay was tiresome. On the other, it might be unwise to pass up an opportunity to learn about the mentor of Edessa from someone other than Astir.

Humam led them through the winding streets to a charming building, its paved courtyard swept to a shine. As their refreshments arrived, Malik asked how the scholar had met Astir. That seemed a reasonable enough question from a slightly jealous husband, and a safer option than asking outright about Musa Al-Rahim.

Their host talked at length about the small saray in Edessa and its unusually scholarly yet spry owner. Humam himself had come there while accompanying a much greater scholar, he admitted.

“Tell me,” he addressed Malik, now ignoring Astir completely. “Have you heard of Shihab al-Din?”

Malik had to admit that he had not.

“He is also called al-Suhrawadi.”

Malik thought the name sounded familiar, but rather than saying anything, let their host continue. Humam spoke at length about the Persian philosopher, including the time he had visited Edessa.

“It was a surprise to us both to spend a night of good conversation with Musa al-Rahim,” he said, shaking his head as though the memory made him slightly pained. “Do you remember him, young woman?” he asked Astir suddenly.

Malik watched as Astir modestly nodded, hiding her face a little.

“I do,” she said quietly. “I remember Al-Rahim calling him a great scholar. I remember he was very young.”

Humam went on about al-Suhrawardi’s brilliance, explaining that he had the great privilege to have copies of some of his works. He wondered out loud if Musa al-Rahim had any of those writings. Had Al-Rahim ever mentioned the scholar’s other visits to Edessa?

Astir muttered that she would not know, but would be happy to ask, if her husband permitted it.

“He sounds like an interesting man,” Malik said politely. He caught himself staring at an odd design of a star stitched into Humam’s sleeve.

“Unfortunately, he has already gone to his reward, a year or more now, in Damascus,” Humam concluded sadly. At the mention of Damascus, Malik remembered where he had heard the name before.

“Has Musa Al-Rahim heard of that?” Humam was asking of Astir.

After a polite expression of condolence and regret, Astir added that she supposed he must have heard of it. She made that meek, shy motion again. Malik caught her eye.

Supplying a few frankly trite remarks on philosophy and afterlife, Malik managed to make their excuses. The parted with the scholar on the best of terms. As soon as they turned a street corner and were back in the noise of the bazaar, Astir cursed in Hebrew.

“I remembered a report from the Damascene bureau,” Malik whispered. “It was two years ago. It mentioned this al-Suhrawardi.”

Astir gritted her teeth.

“He was executed for heresy,” she whispered back. “We may be in trouble, _dai_.”

“Why?”

“We had better not talk here,” she advised. Malik followed her down the crowded street. He felt a strange tension, almost like an animal sniffing the air nervously before an oncoming thunderstorm. There was that strange, but familiar, flicker of the light over the heads of the crowd. As ever, it was accompanied by a strange tingling, like there was an itch behind his eyes.

Astir stopped with a small gasp, pressing her hands to her chest.

“Oh, no,” she squealed, looking at the dusty ground. “I think I dropped it!”

She crouched down. As Malik joined her, he heard her whisper in Hebrew again.

“We are being followed.”

“I know,” he replied. “Can you see who it is?”

“Not clearly,” she said. She stood up slowly, stepping closer to Malik. “Let me go my own way. I’ll meet you at the bureau when it is safe. Three streets past here, down the stairs by a healer’s shop.”

Nodding his understanding, Malik disappeared into the crowd. He could still see Astir clearly as she walked in the direction opposite from the one she told him to take. He waited a moment, and then followed her himself. He spotted the man tailing her soon enough. It was a non-descript fellow in the clothes or a porter or a servant.

As Astir walked deeper into the less busy streets, Malik cursed once again the loss of his arm. Whoever was following Astir was sticking to the ground. He could have followed them much more easily along the rooftops. To make it worse, the narrow streets were barely wide enough to swing a sword properly. And he had not had a chance to tell Astir that this man may be better caught alive.

“Fuck,” he said, and broke into a run, dodging people and leaping lightly over the buckets and crates in between the houses. He had seen buildings like that in Damascus and Jerusalem, surely in Aleppo there would be –

And there it was, a small brick house with steps winding around it to a miniature garden on the roof. He took the stairs two at a time, then cut across the rooftops in the direction Astir had gone.

She had, as he had suspected, lead her pursuer into a narrow alley away from the bazaar and the bureau, where a few garden walls met to form a dead-end filled with building debris. She seemed to limp slightly. Malik realised she was untangling her sword from its hiding place under her robes.

The man behind her drew a knife. Malik folded his arm over his chest and jumped off the roof, landing just behind the man’s feet and knocking him flat on his back.

Astir turned around, sword in hand. Her would-be attacker tried to stand up, still waving the knife in front of him.

“You’ll die, you fool,” Astir spat.

The man got to his feet, completely ignoring Malik hovering behind him.

“I am ready,” the man roared. “You and you master serve the devil!”

He seemed ready to attack Astir with his bare hands. She grimaced.

“Is this about al-Suhrawardī?” she asked calmly.

“You and your master sent him to die!” the man sputtered.

“His own mouth condemned him,” Astir said. “Do not come any closer. I will kill you if I must.”

“The light will guide me!” the man yelled madly, charging at Astir. She twisted out of the way and brought the sword down to slice across his stomach. As he fell, she stabbed down, driving the point under his shoulder blade, quickly stepping out of the way to avoid the spray of blood.

They closed the man’s eyes before carefully hiding the body in the corner of the alleyway and covering it with a few loose bricks from a nearby pile. Malik noticed a small pendant around the man’s neck, a piece of leather with a similar star to the one he saw on Humam ibh-Ahmad’s sleeve.

“I knew we were in trouble,” Astir shook her head. “Forgive me, _dai_.”

“Can you find the way to the bureau from here?” Malik asked.

“It may not be safe,” Astir said. “Perhaps we should leave Aleppo.”

“No,” Malik said firmly. “The _rafiq_ should know about this. And I, too, have questions.”

Astir sheathed her sword.

“Our horses need rest, our weapons need cleaning, and questions need answering,” she muttered. “I shall find the long way around.”

The entrance to the Aleppo bureau was suffused with the smell of herbs and poultices from the apothecary next door. The small, unremarkable door led into a room filled with scrolls, pieces of pottery and all manner of charms and wards against the evil eye.

“I regret to say that I am returned, Ali, but in trouble,” she called out. “Is _rafiq_ Zulaikha anywhere around?”

Malik looked past the crowded tables to where a young man sat, busily stringing together yet another lucky charm.

“You brought a visitor this time,” he called back.

Astir made her way carefully though the messy shop.

“Ali, this is _dai_ Malik Al-Sayf from Masyaf,” she said. “He is on his way to Edessa with me.” As Ali gasped in surprise, she turned to Malik. “This is Ali, _rafiq_ Zulaikha’s right-hand man. He minds the shop and knows everyone and everything.”

Malik approached. The young man did not rise to meet him. Instead, he smiled brightly.

“Right hand, left hand, what I have in this poor head, that’s about it,” he said merrily, turning in his seat. Malik noticed two well used crutches leaning on the wall. “Forgive me for not rising, _dai_.”

He motioned below his waist. His legs, unlike the rest of him, were twisted and thin, like dried branches. Malik smiled back.

“ _Rafiq_ is next door,” Ali said. He turned to Malik. “The woman who runs the apothecary shop is possibly the best healer in all of Aleppo, and a firm friend.”

“A wise choice of friends,” Malik agreed.

Ali reached for the crutches. Astir stopped him.

“I still remember where things are, my friend,” she said. “And we need to lay low for a while. One of the scholars from Al-Shibani recognised me,” she explained.

“Humam? I thought you knew to avoid him and his band of lunatics,” Ali grimaced.

“He found me,” Astir sighed. “Now let me sit down and explain myself before _dai_ here thinks me even more of a fool.”

She disappeared into the inner courtyard. Malik was left alone under young Ali’s adoring gaze.

“You are truly from Masyaf?” the young man sighed. “I’ve dreamed of seeing it.”

Malik felt suddenly tired and hunched under the weight of other people’s dreams of distant lands and fabled cities.

“Then perhaps you should, one time,” he said, trying to sound friendly. “Astir tells me you know much about Aleppo, however.”

The young man smiled sadly.

“What little of it I can get around in,” he offered. “But when you run a stall selling wards and charms, people come with all sorts of stories. I hear what I can, and pass on what I can.”

There would be a great many things for him and Altaïr to discuss, Malik thought as he walked into the small inner courtyard of the bureau. Astir was already settled on a bench, diligently cleaning her sword. He settled down opposite her.

“I had my suspicions of that scholar,” he said. “The man who attacked you bore the same mark.”

“This is lunacy of the highest order,” Astir looked up. “But it may all be my mentor’s fault.”

Malik listened to her tale of the young philosopher from Persia, al-Suhrawardī, and his visit to Edessa. Musa Al-Rahim had indeed taken a shine to the young scholar and his philosophy. Astir struggled to remember the details.

“I may be better at lying than at recalling great truths,” she said. “But al-Suhrawadi spoke of light of lights, from which all forms are descended as but pale shadows, and need must seek to return to the light. At the time, I thought he meant God.”

Malik winced.

“Praise be to the Master, for he has led us to the light,” he muttered. Seeing Astir’s confusion, he waved a calming hand. “I will explain later. Go on.”

It turned out that al-Suhrawardī’s talk of light as the guiding form intrigued Musa al-Rahim greatly. On subsequent visits, at one of which Humam was present, there was much talk of philosophy late into the night. Impressed with the young man’s insight into the nature of creation, al-Rahim showed him the tablet.

“Perhaps he thought a brilliant scholar would understand something we could not,” Astir offered apologetically. “It must have been one of the times that cursed thing lit up.”

She shook her head.

“It is otherworldly, I’ve told you that already. Al-Suhrawardī took it as proof of his beliefs. He would not stop thinking about it, even begged al-Rahim to let him take it to Damascus.”

“That did not happen,” Malik prompted.

The young scholar went on his way, and gained quite a reputation in Damascus. Every now and them, Musa al-Rahim would get word that his teachings have gained a hidden, but dedicated, almost cult-like following among selected scholars. He could not know, Astir guessed vaguely, how much of it was philosophy, how much some almost superstitious hope, or how many hints about the otherworldly treasure from Edessa may have been overheard.

“It was one of the reasons he thought the damned thing would be safer in Masyaf,” Astir said. “In any case, whether for his otherworldly ideas, or for some other reason, poor al-Suhrawardī was executed in Damascus on the charge of heresy.”

Malik frowned.

“And his followers, or what lunatics misheard him, think al-Rahim was behind that?”

Astir shuddered.

“It would appear so,” she said. “But he was executed, not assassinated. The _rafiq_ of Damascus reported as much to you.”

She looked very worried.

“I brought you into danger,” she said. “And al-Rahim may be in danger as well.”

Malik snorted.

“Both your mentor and I know full well what our work entails.”

“What was that you said about the light before?” Astir wanted to know.

Malik sighed and looked around the courtyard. It may have been the greatest horror he had experienced, even compared to Kadar’s sudden and pointless death. He could still recall the mindless husks of villagers roaming Masyaf, dully repeating the praises for the light that had issued from the Apple wielded by al-Mualim. And I had handed it to him, he recalled.

As briefly as he could, as vaguely as he could, he told Astir of another artefact that glowed with an unearthly light, and the light served to darken the minds of men.

To her credit, she looked terrified rather than curious.

“Such things should be destroyed,” she said in disgust.

“But al-Rahim did not destroy the tablet,” Malik pointed out.

“Not for the lack of trying,” she said, spreading her arms helplessly. “It does not chip from a sword or a mallet, it does not burn in fire, it does not rust in water.”

“Indeed,” Malik muttered. “Get some rest. We should leave before dawn, to be safe. And I must speak with the _rafiq_ about these followers of light.”

He wondered if he should send a cautious note to Damascus as well, and from there to Masyaf.

As he got up to leave, Astir called out to him.

“May I ask you something, _dai_?”

“Of course,” he said.

“Why did you follow me, instead of going to the bureau as I asked?”

For a moment he felt dreadful, towering over her as she sat on the ground. She asked not with fear, but with serious concern, almost hurt in her voice. He looked down at the serious face. His neck tingled with the memory of unforgivable dreams.

“I had hoped we could stop him and question him before you had to kill him,” he said. “And I also wanted to be certain there were not more of them.”

She nodded her understanding.

“Why does it trouble you?” he asked.

Astir looked away for a moment, shyly. It reminded him of the time she had inadvertently supposed he had a wife.

“I feared you did it because you did not trust me,” she said at last. “Either to defend myself, or to tell you the entire truth.”

“I’ve seen you defend yourself,” Malik said. “And I trust you on both counts.”

She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” she nodded. “I’ll make sure there’s a place for you to rest when you return.”

Malik felt even worse. Suddenly a happy thought came to him.

“How about another game of chess to pass the time?” he suggested. Astir’s eyes lit up.

“I’ll have the board prepared,” she called as he walked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Like so many other beautiful things in this world, the minaret of Banu Umayya masjid no longer exists. It was destroyed by bombing during the civil war in Syria in April 2013.


	12. A twist in the road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Animal harm - horses. Not graphic, not detailed, but fair warning is better.

Come dawn, Malik cursed the efficient rule of the heirs of Saladin. The few gaps in the walls of Aleppo were all closely watched. Malik and Astir shivered by the stables as they waited for the call to _fajr_ to be over. As soon as the city gates opened, they rode out. Keeping the Aintab hills to their left, they made the most of the open, flat road that lead east towards the Euphrates.

Malik was still deep in thought from everything he had heard in Aleppo. The habit of talking things over with Altaïr, arguments or not, had become a part of his thinking, he realised. He had sent notes to Damascus with instructions to pass them to Masyaf. That had cleared his thoughts some. Yet all that would mean is that he and Altaïr would now be worriedly mulling over the same matters, one in Masyaf and the other on the road to Edessa.

He had not mentioned the chess board, nor the fact that, during the second game the night before, Astir finally managed to play him to a draw.

Some time after leaving Aleppo they heard the noise of galloping hooves behind them. The two riders exchanged worried glances. The road was silent and mostly empty, the land around it flat and bare. Without a word, they turned their horses from the road. The shrubs and trees could hide them, but not the horses. On the other hand, Malik thought, if a fight could not be avoided, its traces would be more easily hidden away from the road.

“There,” Astir called out, pointing to a small stream nearby. Where it widened off into a pool of stagnant water, a large tree grew. It would not suffice to hide the horses, but it was better than the open plain. They settled down to wait.

Three men on horseback appeared on the road. At that distance, crouching in the grass, Malik could not tell if they were guards, soldiers or merely mercenaries, but he could tell they were armed.

Astir was readying her sword.

“They cannot be guards,” she muttered, as though she had read his mind. “How would Humam explain himself to them, even if he had found his acolyte’s body by now?”

“Unlikely,” Malik agreed. “But we cannot veer off the road every time we hear riders. Let us see.”

The riders approached, slowing down. One of them dismounted at the very place where Malik and Astir had got off the road. The man looked at the ground carefully.

“Shit,” said Malik and Astir at the same time. They watched with bated breath as the entire party, once again on horseback, headed their way.

“I can’t fight on horseback,” Malik hissed. “Get on your horse and start riding away.”

“I am not much good either,” Astir hissed back.

“Don’t fight them, draw them away” Malik instructed. “But not too far. Let them pass me.”

She nodded and crept away towards the horses. The moment she rode out from under the cover of the branches, the three men spurred their mounts. The handle of a throwing knife in his teeth and a sizeable rock in his hand, Malik crept as close as he dared. As the last rider passed him, he threw the rock, hitting the horse in the flank. The animal reared in pain, slowing down. Now Malik threw the knife. The rider screamed, losing his grip on the reins, and keeled over, tangled in the stirrups.

The middle rider, alerted by the noise, gave up on pursuing Astir. Behind him, the first rider in pursuit raised a bow and let loose an arrow just as Astir made a sharp turn. Malik thought he saw the arrow hit, but she kept riding, low in the saddle.

The second rider now charged at Malik, sword raised.

“Forgive me,” Malik muttered.

There were so few benefits to being left with one arm, Malik had often thought. One was, of course, that people tended to drop their guard and forget caution when facing a one-armed opponent. The other was that, with a slightly altered scabbard and no left arm in the way, he could unexpectedly swing out in an arc that caught most opponents by surprise.

And that was what he did, spinning out of the way and catching the horse on one of the front legs. The impact of his sword on the bone almost made the weapon fly out of his hand.

The horse collapsed, taking the rider with it. Malik put an end to him quickly.

Astir was riding away like mad, zigzagging desperately across the field, the last attacker still in pursuit. Malik ran to his own horse.

For a mad moment, he was tempted to take the reins in his teeth and simply charge at the last rider with the sword. Astir was tilting dangerously to the side in the saddle. Malik spurred the animal into a gallop.

He had done this once before, for a foolish bet, but as a younger man and not against an armed opponent. Standing up in the stirrups, he shook one leg loose, putting his entire weight on his other leg. As the gap between him and Astir’s pursuer closed, he leapt, crashing heavily into the other man. The force was enough to partially unsaddle the rider, but not completely. Malik rolled off the horse. He had slowed the man down, but he had now left himself almost defenceless against a mounted attacker.

Not quite foolish, but dangerous, he thought to himself as the rider turned to charge him. The stream was right behind him. If he could dive to his right, perhaps –

He heard a hair-raising scream. Astir bore down on the last attacker, sword in one hand, the other desperately gripping the reins. In front of Malik’s eyes, the point of the curved blade burst through the man’s chest. With a sob, Astir dropped the sword before the weight of the corpse could pull her down with it.

She leaned over the neck of the horse, breathing heavily. Under the mangled scarf, her face shone with sweat. An arrow was sticking out of her upper leg.

She motioned weakly towards her sword. Malik retrieved it, walked around the horse and placed the blade back in the scabbard himself. She tried to sit up.

“Don’t move,” he said. “Wait for me here.”

He returned to the injured horse and did what needed to be done, shaking his head as the needless loss. Then he rushed back to Astir.

His heroic leap had ended with him landing heavily on the handle of his sword. He could feel the bruises as he tied their horses together. Gritting his teeth, he managed to get on the horse behind Astir.

“You need to sit sideways,” he said. “No weight on the leg at all.”

Grimacing in pain, she managed to twist around. She sat awkwardly, trying to lean into the neck of the horse.

“No,” Malik said. “You cannot sit like that for long. Lean against me.”

Astir leaned against his right shoulder. Malik cast another glance at the site of the skirmish.

“Did any of them have that damned star?” Astir panted.

“I did not stop to look,” Malik said. “But as they knew who they were looking for, we can easily guess who sent them.”

“Where to now?” Astir said through gritted teeth. “We will not get far like this.”

“The first place where someone can tend to you,” Malik said. “Try not to move too much.”

The moment he started riding, he realised she would slip off.

“Hold on more tightly,” he growled. “Or we’ll both end up on the ground.”

He waited patiently as she wrapped her arms around him. Every now and then, a hissing breath would escape her, but she never cried out in pain.

“Curse all you want, if it helps,” Malik offered as they rode.

“No,” she said firmly. “Not in front of you.”


	13. The verses of the book

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Drug use - but strictly medical
> 
> NOTE: _Afyun_ is the Arabic word for the drug we know as opium. It was commonly used throughout history as an anaesthetic and a powerful sedative.

Malik took as much time as he dared. He rode in the shallow part of the stream, leaving it to the water to cover their tracks. He crossed the stream back and forth several times until he was certain that even a hound would have trouble picking up their trail.

There he was, riding along on a bright day through a green field along the banks of a gurgling stream, Astir’s arms around his waist.

It was dreadful.

Astir remained stubbornly silent. Every now and then he felt her fingers twitch and clench into fists on his back. The motion made him remember his ride from Jerusalem to Masyaf, his arm hanging useless at his side.

Most of all, it reminded him that she was in pain and that he could not help with an injury like that, not on his own, not anymore. Keeping an eye out for any trace of a village or at least a farmhouse, he passed the time having an imaginary argument with Altaïr in his head.

Was this supposed to prove something, he wanted to ask. Did you send me with her so I could get her killed? Did that ever cross your mind?

He knew the answers to most of these questions, of course, and finally had to admit that his argument was not with Altaïr, but with himself.

The stream he had been following joined into one large enough to merit a bridge. Malik thought he could see a village in the distance.

“Astir,” he called quietly. There was a groan of acknowledgement.

“I think I see a village,” Malik said. “I want to hurry, but it will hurt.”

She twisted an end of her scarf and bit down on it firmly.

“Ride,” he heard a muffled command.

Malik rode into the village in a cloud of dust. A woman and a young boy poked their heads out of a nearby house.

“Is there a physician or a healer here?” Malik called to them.

The woman gave the boy a gentle shove.

“Go, take him to Harun’s,” she said. The boy waved at Malik to follow. As they neared their destination, the child yelled at the top of his lungs for a master Harun.

An older man, no taller than Astir, stepped out into the village street. He took one look at the pair and marched up to the horse.

“Can she walk at all?” he asked.

Astir spat the chewed-up cloth from her mouth.

“Yes,” she squealed. She let Malik and the physician help her off the horse. The man called Harun expertly slipped his hand under her shoulder. He called out to someone in the house, rattling off instructions. Malik tried to follow, but the boy who had led him there tugged on his sleeve.

“Don’t, _sidi_ ,” the child advised him seriously. “Harun doesn’t let strangers in when he’s fixing wounds. He says people bring too much filth and muck.”

Malik looked down at his little guide.

“If you try to go in now, he’ll kick you out,” the child advised again, obviously speaking from experience.

Malik tried to smile.

“I will listen to you, then,” he nodded. He fished for a coin in his pouch. “Here. Take that to your mother.”

The little boy gaped for a moment, then took the coin, tried to bow and ran off. Malik was left standing alone in the dusty road. He looked for somewhere to tie off the horses.

From Harun’s house came a howl of pain, very similar to the one Astir gave while charging down the last attacker from that morning. Malik hoped that was the worst of it. It still set his teeth on edge. Had he wailed like that? He could not remember it very well anymore. He was glad to have forgotten the pain, and even gladder to have forgotten the dreams that came in the addled, heavy hours afterwards. He remembered biting down on wood and the strange taste that _afyun_ left in his mouth.

He could not remember if he had cursed, blasphemed or railed in pain at his injury. He had much clearer memories of cursing and railing to his heart’s content – and to no good purpose – afterwards, when he was ordered to go and mind the Jerusalem bureau, and thereby ordered to mind his own business.

He sat down on a low bench beside the house to wait. He heard voices, but no more howls of pain.

Not in front of you, Astir had said. He sighed.

He heard Harun the physician thanking someone and asking them to see ‘the fellow outside’. Malik realised that the man was speaking Hebrew.

A woman appeared at the door. She held a pitcher in her hands.

“ _Shalom aleichem_ ,” Malik said. The woman smiled, surprised.

“Come, wash yourself,” she offered. “The young woman will be alright.”

Malik gratefully accepted the opportunity to clean himself up.

“Bandits?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Malik lied. “But we were – “

He sighed.

“Forgive me,” he said in Arabic. “I do not speak your language all that well. We were fortunate to get away, and even more fortunate to find you.”

The woman acknowledged his apology with a small smile.

“My husband is a good healer. Your friend will be alright, you will see.”

Harun the physician joined them, wiping his hands on a clean piece of cloth.

“Now you can come in,” he said. He led Malik the around the house to a side door that opened into a quiet, clean room. Astir was trying to sit up from a trestle table in the middle of the room.

“Stay down, child,” Harun barked. “I told you to wait.” He went to fetch something from one of the well-supplied shelves.

“How bad is the pain?” Malik asked Astir. Her hair was half undone and she was still beaded with sweat. She waved off the question.

“I can bear it,” she grunted. “I should be able to travel in a day or so.”

“Travel, perhaps, but ride, no,” Harun said, offering her a clay cup. “But that can wait. Now drink this and get some rest.”

“Is there anywhere in the village we could stay?” Malik asked. Harun patted him on the shoulder.

“Stay here. There is a bed in that room,” he motioned to a smaller room next door. “If you can sit up with her, my wife and I won’t need to.”

“What is this?” Astir asked, peering into the cup.

“Milk of the poppy,” the physician replied.

“ _Afyun_ ,” Malik muttered. “Drink it, it will help.”

“You know your medicine,” Harun said appreciatively.

“I know injuries,” Malik replied. “Thank you, _sidi_.”

Harun smiled.

“I’d offer you a drink of wine, you look like you could use it,” he said. “But from the conversation with my wife, I gather you are not permitted such things.”

Astir managed to sit up.

“Thank you,” she said in Hebrew. “For your skill and kindness.”

Harun’s eyebrows shot up.

“Stubborn and educated,” he commented as Malik helped Astir into the small room and onto the bed. “You should feel quite tired in a moment. Do not fight it, just rest. And I’ll settle the bill with your friend here.”

Malik followed the physician.

“What do I owe you?” he asked.

Harun looked up at Malik.

“Listen, friend,” he said. “We can settle that tomorrow when we see how she is. But I need to know if that was truly a bandit attack. I will not ask your names. I will not ask your business. But if someone comes in the middle of the night looking for you or for her, I need to be ready.”

“We were attacked,” Malik confirmed. “And those that attacked us will not be able to follow. But I will stay up tonight. If I hear anything, I shall deal with it.”

Harun peered into Malik’s face for a moment, then at the sword on Malik’s hip. He nodded.

“I’ll trust you,” he said. “Now go, be with her.”

Malik settled down next to the bed in the quiet room. Astir was drifting off to sleep. As sunlight faded, they were left in a soft, quiet darkness. After a while, Malik stood up to stretch. The cool of the evening was settling in. He picked up one of their travel-worn blankets and covered Astir. She pulled the blanket closer, then winced, murmuring something.

Malik sat down next to the bed again.

“Mentor,” she called quietly. And after a moment, again, “Mentor.”

“You are safe. Rest,” Malik said softly.

Her eyes were half open. Malik recognized the distant look of someone caught in the half-dream brought about by _afyun_.

“Mentor,” she said again. “I made it to Masyaf.”

Malik sighed.

“You did,” he said. “And you have done well. Now you should rest.”

She smiled lopsidedly.

“I did not do well,” she slurred. “It was a disaster, a disaster. I am ruined.”

The words came out mangled, half in Arabic, half in Hebrew.

Despite his better judgement, Malik had to ask.

“How so?” he said.

“Ruined,” she whispered again, but this time in Hebrew. “I have found him whom my soul loves. I would hold him, and not let him go, until I had brought him into my mother's chambers.”

Malik looked at her helplessly. The verse was distantly familiar. He sat motionless, his neck burning once more, caught between the weight of her words and the desperate attempt to remember.

“Whom did you find?” he whispered.

“I met a king,” she said, reaching out with a trembling hand. Her forehead was covered with sweat.

Now Malik reached out with an equally shaking, hesitant hand and touched her face. She was not feverish, but the trembling would not stop.

“I met a king,” she said again. “Why did you give me this name, mentor? Look at me now.”

Malik looked at the trembling hand. Slowly, cautiously, he folded it back over her chest.

“Be quiet, Hadi,” he begged. “You need to sleep.”

“What a cruel joke, this name of mine,” she sighed, closing her eyes again. Her breathing evened out. The shivers ceased. Malik stood up and ran his hand over his face. In the now silent darkness, words thronged around his head.

He heard movement in the room next door.

Harun the physician looked up from the medicines and containers he had been sorting.

“Is she asleep?” he asked.

“Yes,” Malik said. “May I ask you something?”

Harun looked suspicious.

“About what?” he asked, putting down the bowl he had in his hands.

“About your scriptures, as it happens,” Malik said.

The older man shrugged.

“I am not much of a religious scholar,” he said. “Then again, by the look of that sword, neither are you. Ask.”

“Does the name Hadi, or Hadassah, appear anywhere in your holy book?”

Harun nodded. He thought for a moment, then recited slowly in Hebrew.

“’And he brought up Hadassah, that is, Esther, his uncle's daughter: for she had neither father nor mother, and the maid was fair and beautiful; whom Mordecai, when her father and mother were dead, took for his own daughter.’”

“Esther,” Malik repeated. The words started to come together. “Astir.”

“Yes, although I don’t hear that name among your people very often,” Harun agreed. “Do you know the story of queen Esther?”

“I’ve heard it,” Malik said. In the back of his head, Altaïr was smirking again. You never did explain, you ass, Malik thought. You left it for me to find out on my own, and to leave myself tongue tied, he thought miserably.

“She was a Jewish maiden who married a Persian king,” Harun was explaining in Arabic.

“A king,” Malik muttered to himself. Another word, or name, found its place. He squeezed the bridge of his nose.

“I am happy to talk about the books of Ketuvim all night long,” Harun said warmly. “But you look like you need sleep more than a learned discussion.”

“Thank you,” Malik said. “I will keep watch, as I’ve said. I shall not trouble you again.”

He sat down by Astir’s bed again. By now she was sleeping soundly.

The words had come back to him now, the scraps of verses read long ago, useless though they were. His hand hovered over Astir’s hair. He pulled it back, squeezing it into a fist at his side.

He had his answer now, and he had remembered the verses. He laid his arm next to her head and rested his forehead on it. Now that the words had come back to him, where no one might hear them, he could not stop himself.

“Behold, you are fair, my love,” he recited quietly, haltingly. “Behold, you are fair. You have doves' eyes within your locks. You have ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse; you have ravished my heart with but one look of your eyes, with one chain of your neck.”

The moon rose outside. Malik kept his watch, and Astir slept.


	14. The wedding dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: NSFW

When the first cockerels crowed, Malik allowed himself to sleep. He opened his eyes a few hours later to the sounds of housework being done and women yelling at children. Astir stirred on the bed.

“Have you slept well?” Malik asked when she opened her eyes.

She nodded and immediately tried to move her injured leg. She swore.

“I all but forgot about it,” she groaned. “I remember nothing after I drank that thing Harun gave me.”

“Good,” Malik said sincerely. “He did say it may be a few days before you can ride again.”

Astir sat up immediately, apparently ignoring the pain.

“That is not good,” she said, her face serious. “ _Dai_ , you must go on. I can meet you in Edessa.”

Malik considered this. He could hardly get lost on the road. In all likelihood, they had shaken off any pursuit from Aleppo. With everything she had told him, he would have no trouble finding Musa Al-Rahim. Astir had made the journey on her own once already, and she would be perfectly safe once she had recovered.

All in all, it was a perfectly sensible suggestion.

“That is out of the question,” Malik told her.

Harun the physician poked his head into the room.

“Let us see what a good night’s rest has done for you, child,” he said to Astir.

Having changed the dressing on the wound, he shook his head at Astir’s questions.

“Another day and you may be able to ride, but cautiously,” he concluded. Over his shoulder, Astir looked at Malik as if to prove her point.

“Tarrying here will do no good,” she said firmly.

“Young people are always in a hurry,” the physician said. “To every thing there is a season,” he added in Hebrew.

“And a time for every purpose under heaven,” Astir snapped. “But time is wasting.”

“I do not wish to know what this urgent business of yours is,” Harun said. “But you will not get it done with a game leg, my girl.”

He turned to Malik. “Although, if you truly are in such a hurry, I could ask my son to take you to the first river post on our cart.”

Malik cleared his throat.

“Last night, you said you trusted us,” he said to the physician. “Why?”

Harun pointed to Astir's hand.

“Your fingers,” he said.

“And what cause do our fingers give you to trust us?” Astir asked, voice laden with suspicion.

Harun closed the door to the room.

“In these troubled times, a man can easily lose an arm or a leg,” he said, looking at Malik. “And even someone who toils in the field or the woods can easily lose a piece of their finger. I should know that. But when two people show up with the exact same, long healed injuries, one begins to wonder.”

Malik thought back to Astir’s insistence on keeping her gloves on when travelling.

“That sounds like a cause for suspicion, rather than trust,” he said slowly.

To his surprise, Harun smiled.

“Indeed. But as fate would have it, some years ago I had a shop and a clinic in Damascus. This was during the last incursion from the Franks.”

Astir and Malik waited.

“Troubled times, in Damascus and everywhere,” Harun continued. “A country at war is always a little lawless. I got hauled out of my shop by the guards for some imagined slight.”

He grimaced at the memory.

“Two of them were of mind to beat me to death there and then,” he recalled. “But someone interfered on my behalf, drove them off and saw me back to safety.”

“Who was it?” Malik asked.

“A man of few words,” Harun said. “He had no name to give me, and no need for payment. He also did not have half of his third finger.”

Malik decided to keep his guesses to himself. As neither he nor Astir spoke, Harun went on.

“So when two people with such similar injuries showed up at my house, both armed, but courteous and willing to not only pay, but to stand watch over a stranger’s house all night, I was inclined to trust them. And now I shall tell my boy to hitch the cart.”

When Harun left the room, Astir let out a long-held breath. Malik shook his head.

“That ass,” he muttered. “To think he would be useful at a time like this.”

“Who?” Astir asked, looking baffled.

“Never mind,” Malik laughed. “Another time. That one is a much longer story.”

***

Harun bargained them down to what Malik suspected was half his usual fee. Having made sure that Astir was settled as comfortably as possible in the cart, the physician placed his hands on her head and gave her a long, involved blessing.

By the end of the day they were within sight of the majestic flow of the Euphrates. They bid farewell to Harun’s son against the golden glow of the river in the sunset.

Astir had found a supple, straight branch to use as walking stick. She frowned, looking upriver.

“Forgive me, but I still thing you were wrong,” she said. “I will only slow us down.”

Malik said nothing. Instead, he looked at her face in the warm glow of the sunset. After another day of rest, colour had returned to her cheeks.

A breeze blew over them, carrying the smell of wood fire. Astir turned her head like a dog sniffing the air.

“Fish,” she whispered. “Freshly caught.”

Malik looked from her to the river.

“Then go and get us some dinner,” he said gruffly. “I need some time to think.”

He did not need to tell her twice. She hobbled off at speed. Malik quickly made his way to a group of men gathered by the boats. By the time Astir had returned with two well-cooked fish wrapped in fresh bread, he had concluded his business and found a quiet spot by the riverside where they could eat.

As they ate, Malik caught himself staring at Astir as she delicately, with the skill of a cat, cleaned fish off the bone. He let her eat her fill and helped himself to water, his mouth feeling suddenly quite dry. He looked at the broad river instead. It was truly a majestic sight, and he was glad to have seen it.

A cat snuck up to them and mewled pitifully. Astir threw the fish heads and the remaining bones to the animal. She sighed contentedly.

“You seem to be recovering well,” Malik said.

“It could have been a great deal worse,” Astir mused. “If that arrow had hit half a foot higher, I would not be able to sit now.”

“I am glad,” Malik said, and then coughed quickly, covering his face with his sleeve rather than elaborate.

“I will still slow us down,” she started again.

“Only if we ride,” Malik pointed out. “There should be a barge here tonight, bound for al-Bira. They can take us and the horses.”

At that, Astir smiled, looking straight at him. It was a smile of relief and pure joy.

“Then you can sleep all you like,” Malik went on. “And perhaps even fish, to cover the cost of feeding you while you regain your strength.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Malik shrugged.

“I am disappointed you could not think of that yourself,” he added.

Astir’s shy smile melted away.

“I must still be slow from the loss of blood and the _afyun_ ,” she said dryly.

“No chess, then,” Malik said. “If you cannot think clearly.”

He looked back to the river, counting slowly. Before he had reached five, he heard the thump of the chessboard being placed on the ground in front of him.

“Let us put that to test,” Astir hissed.

Malik reached for the bag of pieces.

“If I must,” he said happily.

The few days on the river barge passed quickly enough. Malik spoke with the bargemen and listened carefully to their chatter. Some came from lower reaches of the Euphrates, with tales of places Malik had heard of, but had never had a chance to see. He listened to them discuss distances, difficult parts of the river, and the ebb and flow of goods from Damascus to Basra and Baghdad.

Astir decided to play the part of the weak and sickly woman, keeping modestly to herself. Having had little to no luck with fishing, she spent a lot time gazing over the water. Malik, in turn, came to realise that, when the crew were busy, he spent altogether too much time looking at her. A few times he caught her looking at him. She would always smile or nod, but look away quickly, hiding her face as quickly as politeness allowed.

At night, the crew burnt branches of cedar and other wood to keep the midges and mosquitoes at bay. Malik and Astir played chess. Given the opportunity and peace, Astir drew her moves more slowly, taking the requisite time to think. For once, Malik regretted his skill at the game. His faster play left him looking at her face bent over the board, and the hands that hovered over the pieces, white in the darkness. Inevitably, the verses she had spoken in her fevered dream would come back to him at those times, as did his unheard response.

By the time the vessel approached the twists in the river south of Al-Bira, Astir felt confident enough to ride again.

“Al-Bira is a marvel, but it would only delay us,” she advised earnestly. “From here to Edessa there are villages and farms every step of the way, and fewer people to ask questions.”

The time on the river had truly paid off, Malik thought. Astir seemed fully recovered. Yet as the miles between the river and Edessa fell away, she grew quiet and withdrawn.

The next village they came upon almost gave them cause for alarm. It was caught in a flurry of activity. Women rushed this way and that, and children dashed like mad everywhere. Malik and Astir’s arrival went unnoticed.

They finally approached a yard where a woman was carefully stacking large bowls of fruit. On hearing they needed a place to spend the night, the woman smiled and motioned behind her.

“That hut over there has a hole in the roof and we mostly use it to store hay,” she smiled. “You are welcome to stay there, if you want.”

“We come at a bad time, it would seem,” Malik said apologetically.

“Not at all,” the woman laughed. “A busy time, though. There is a wedding feast tonight.”

Now the rushed calls, an absence of menfolk and the smell of large animals roasting made a lot more sense.

“In fact,” the woman said, “You can probably join in, no one will mind.” She named two other nearby villages. “They all seem to be coming here tonight. And there is more than enough food to go around, God be praised. But you may not get much sleep if the revelry goes on too late.”

The hay in the disused hut would make for two quite comfortable beds. Astir carefully packed her things under the hay. She stared out of the small window, face pensive.

The noise in the centre of the village grew louder as the evening fell.

“Perhaps we should join them,” Malik suggested.

“If you want,” she said quietly.

Their host spotted them in the crowd and plied them with food. A few clay bottles were being passed around more or less surreptitiously. Malik thought he caught the scent of wine.

They sat down on a low wall some distance from the other revellers. Someone began to beat a drum, then a flute sounded, and finally voices rose in song.

Malik turned to Astir and almost gasped. Her food was practically untouched.

“Are you not well?” he asked. “Is that leg troubling you?”

She shook her head.

“I was listening,” she muttered. As though to convince him, her fingers tapped out the rhythm of the song on the hilt of her sword.

Women’s voices competed with those of the men. The drums picked up, followed by rhythmic clapping as dancing began.

Malik looked at the gloved hand on the sword hilt.

“We should see if that leg of yours can truly hold you,” he said. “Come along.”

She followed him to a secluded corner between the houses. Malik pointed to her sword.

“Let’s have some practice, if you are up to it,” he said, drawing his own sword.

He could have sworn that, for a moment, Astir looked almost terrified. Then she sniffed and drew the sword, immediately taking up a defensive stance.

Malik feinted to attack her, and she backed off immediately. The circled around each other for a few moments, blades rarely touching. The slow movement felt discordant against the merry, rapid song.

Malik started attacking quickly, watching Astir parry almost frantically. He kept up the routine, wondering how long it would take her to realise that he was timing his attacks to the rhythm of the tune.

As the lively chorus came around again, Astir finally smiled, nodding her understanding. Now both swordfighters sped up, the blades touching quickly, almost in jest, but always to the rhythm of the song. Their movements loosened, becoming less careful and more dance-like. As one song ended, the drums immediately picked up another beat. The two dancers continued unnoticed and undisturbed, swirling and twisting in moves that would quickly get them killed in a real fight. They twirled their swords at each other in challenge, drawing closer to clang the blades at just the wrong time for an attack, but just right for the movement of the song.

As another rapid tune came to close, they grinned at each other over their crossed blades.

“That was very good,” Malik said.

Astir put the sword away.

“Yes,” she whispered. “It was.”

He saw the same silence of the last few days drawing over her again like a veil.

“Do you need to rest?” he asked. “This has been your first long day of travel in a while. Perhaps we should turn in.”

Astir nodded. She picked up something from the ground in the dark. Malik followed her back to the little hut. There was still some light in there, thanks to the hole in the roof.

Astir sat down and put the thing from her hand on the floor. Malik realised it was a clay bottle. He could smell the wine.

“There is not much left in it, so I thought it would not be missed,” Astir said. “Do you mind if I have some?”

Malik grinned.

“As long as you share it,” he said.

Astir offered him the bottle. He motioned for her to take the first drink.

She took a long swig, then another one. Taking the bottle from her hand, Malik judged that there was enough for a few more tasty swigs, but not nearly enough for either of them to get drunk.

The bottle passed between them once or twice. Eventually it ended up forgotten on the floor. The revelry outside went on, louder than before. The two sat in uncomfortable silence.

“ _Dai_ ,” Astir said suddenly. “There is something I must do.”

She shifted so that she now knelt on the ground, hands resting on her knees.

“What is it?” Malik asked.

“We will reach Edessa tomorrow, or the day after at the latest,” she said, looking at the ground. “And if I do not do this, I will regret it for the rest of my days.”

She looked up, eyes wide as though in fear.

“I do not ask you to do or say anything, _dai_ ,” she said. “Only that you forgive me.”

Malik looked from the tense face to the hands that gripped her knees. For a mad moment, he wondered if she meant to attack him, although that made no sense.

“Go ahead,” was all he could manage to say.

Astir leaned in closer.

“Forgive me,” she whispered again, close enough for her breath to brush Malik’s cheek. He closed his eyes.

Her lips, even parched from the day on the road, felt warm and soft. Malik’s breath caught. With something akin to panic, he realised that she would retreat in a moment.

Words and whispers swirled in his head again, then dissipated in a whirlwind. Malik’s hand grabbed at her hair, clutching her closer before she had a chance to move away. His mouth parted under hers. He tightened his grip desperately.

The hands that had been forced to lie still on her knees now flew up, wrapping around his waist. Malik sat up straighter, then leaned into her, toppling them both onto the floor. In between the shadows, he could see the pale length of her neck. He ran his fingers over it and finally kissed it. It felt like Damascene silk.

“Hadi,” he breathed against her skin. “Stop me, Hadi.”

Her hands folded around his neck.

“Never,” she replied. “Never.”

And she called him by his name.

Now the time for words was passed, Malik realised. The verses and cautious questions were replaced by the sound of the blood in his ears. He tugged at the rim of Astir’s tunic until he had pulled it up as far as he could. And then, impatiently, he picked up the edge of the cloth in his teeth and pulled it further up. His hand was still caught in her hair, feeling along the heavy, long tresses. Lowering his head to her chest, he let himself bite, and worry, and graze his teeth over the warm skin.

The tunic disappeared, he did not know where. His hand moved down Astir’s neck, over her breasts, down the flat expanse of her stomach and up again. She pulled his hand up, her mouth closing over his fingers. Malik moaned against her skin.

He felt her hands sliding under his robe, trying to help him shed it. Raising himself on his arm above her, he let her slip it off. Astir looked at him breathlessly for a moment, then lifted her head, teeth tugging at the string that tied his tunic. He wanted to say something, he wanted to tell her to hurry, but no words came to him. He closed his eyes, slithering down against her as she pulled his tunic off. He felt the warm, slow kisses on his left shoulder.

He should have thought he would have enough sense remaining to say something, or at least call her name. Instead, he heard himself almost growling as he pawed at her belt, tugging and pulling until it came off and the cloth underneath loosened enough for him to move it out of the way.

Astir twisted, sobbing and raising her hips, desperate to get rid of whatever cover remained on her. Her nails sank into Malik’s shoulder blades. The sting drew a strangled cry from his throat, but did little to slow him down or clear his head. He pulled himself forward until he could see her face again.

“Stop me,” Malik said again. “Stop me or I will devour you.”

“Do as you will,” Astir replied, and he could not even tell what language she had spoken in. “Do as you will,” she repeated, nodding, her teeth biting into her lower lip.

The breathlessly granted permission licked over him like a tongue of fire, burning away the sickly shame of the earlier dreams. His hand gripped and squeezed relentlessly.

They rolled this way and that, grabbing at each other for purchase and clawing hungrily. The empty bottle, long forgotten, was smacked out of the way, smashing against the wall.

Malik twisted his way down again until his shoulder pressed against the firm muscles of her legs. One of her hands found his. Her fingers twitched, intertwining with his. Her other hand scraped at the ground.

Malik’s teeth tugged on the inside of her thigh.

“You wouldn’t,” she gasped. “I will die, I will die.”

Malik could not believe the harsh sound of his own voice.

“You will not,” he promised. “And I would, and I will.”

With what little conscious thought remained, he thanked the Heaven that the noise of the wedding feast would drown out all other sounds. As his tongue found the folds between Astir’s legs, she screamed. The screams became gasps, then sharp sobs, her fingers squeezing so tightly he could feel every bone in his hand. He disentangled his hand from hers and reached up, feeling for her mouth, letting her gnaw on his fingers, but he would not stop, not until he felt the muscles of her thighs shaking, her feet scraping the ground behind him.

“Have pity on me,” she whispered against his fingers. “I will go mad.”

Malik moved up until their faces rested next to each other again.

“Then we are both mad,” he said. “I cannot stop myself anymore.”

Astir’s eyes shone from under the tangles of hair over her face.

“You cannot hurt me,” she said. “You would not have hurt me if you had done this while I was chained to that wall in Masyaf.”

Malik stared at her.

“You only tell me this now, _houri_ ,” he breathed.

Her hands ran over his chest, around his waist again, and lower, untying, disentangling, pulling. He braced his arm against the floor. He could feel the sweat rolling down his face.

Suddenly he felt her hand wrapping around his left shoulder, moving with him, bracing him soundly and firmly, taking all the weight he could no longer bear.

“Hadi,” he whispered again, and then the whirlwind returned. It felt different from the dreams, free of strange chambers and confusing words, free of any words at all. Every muscle in his body taut to the point of pain, he swung his hips, at first slowly then faster and faster, eyes closed, teeth clamped together, hissing and growling, with no breath left to call her name again. But she called out his, calling him, encouraging him, the sound of her voice driving him wild more than the nails in his shoulder or tight grip on his flesh. Her breath ran out, turning into a shuddering moan, and her entire body shivered around him. Gasping, he opened his eyes, never slowing down his movement.

In the one ray of moonlight, he could see her eyes, tightly shut and the trickle of sweat on her temples running down into her hair. Her head flung back and the veins on her neck stood out as she fought for breath.

He cried out, desperate for release himself, and sank his teeth into the glowing skin, biting and growling against it, grinding down and sliding until another howl overtook him. Breathless, half-blind from the sweat in his eyes, he collapsed into her arms.

Astir’s hair felt cool against his cheek, her breath warm against shoulder. Slowly, carefully, he ran his hand over her waist and along her leg. He felt the thin bandage around her thigh.

“Your leg,” he whispered, not having enough breath for anything more, not just yet.

Astir’s head nuzzled against his neck.

“I could not care less if it had fallen off,” she whispered.

Hay shifted under them as their bodies grew heavy, sliding apart. They looked at each other in the faint moonlight, neither saying a word.

Astir’s hand reached for his face.

“Any moment now,” she whispered. “Any moment, and I shall wake up.”

Malik’s eyes wondered down to her neck and shoulders. He blinked, then wiped the sweat from his eyes. Unnervingly, it had not been a trick of the light. He could see the marks of his teeth.

“If you want to awaken, then do so,” he said. “I will not blame you.”

“If I do not have to, I would rather stay asleep forever,” she told him softly. “Here, or in chains, or on cold ground.”

Malik drew her closer. He kissed the marks on her neck gently.

“If that is what you want,” he whispered. “Let us not wake just yet.”


	15. The broken ones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another NSFW warning... Almost done, promise.

The morning light found them still fast asleep and holding onto each other against the chill. The usual noises of the village morning were missing, or not as loud as expected. The villagers must have still been sleeping off the revelry of the previous night.

They opened their eyes at the same time and looked on each other in silence.

“Tonight we shall be in Edessa,” Astir whispered.

She stood up slowly, unwillingly.

“We should go,” she muttered, reaching for her saddlebags. Malik watched her silently as she drew out the clothes he had seen her wear in Masyaf. The warm skin disappeared under the washed out grey cloth.

We are Assassins, he thought. We obey and we fight. We do this knowing that there is no reward. We do this knowing that each day may be our last. There will be no warning of the battle, no blessing to the sound of a beating drum.

We do not march off to our task thinking we shall not return. If we did, we would falter. And if we did not falter, then we would think of ourselves as gods. Therefore, we will not say our farewells, he mused, just as he had never thought to bid farewell to Kadar.

His fingers felt the marks of Astir’s nails on his shoulder.

Our time is not our own, he said to himself. We have already given most of it away.

He had wanted to guard his brother. He had wanted justice done. He had wanted Altaïr dead. If Al-Mualim had lived, Malik would have wanted him hanged alive from the walls of Masyaf while he shouted to the world how they had been betrayed.

With that one promise of obedience, we have broken all our other promises in advance, he said to himself.

Astir was tying up her hair, the dark locks now tightly bound, each in place. Voices called outside. Water splashed into buckets and jars.

I love you, he thought.

Astir was fitting the bracer with the hidden blade on her arm.

“Time does not stop when we reach Edessa,” Malik said. “And the time that others do not ask of us is our own.”

She dropped the weapons she was holding and knelt next to him.

“Do you understand me?” he said desperately.

“I do,” she replied. “And I will steal what time I can, when I can, and wherever I find it.”

To his own surprise, Malik smiled.

“I have seen you steal fruit, I have seen you steal wine,” he nodded. “I can see you stealing time.”

Astir bit her lip.

“If I kiss you now, I will not stop,” she told him. “And we need to go. But what time I steal, like fruit, like wine, I will bring to you.”

As they rode towards Edessa, Astir explained the sudden change in her garments. If she were to ride to the saray hideout as a modest maiden, a strange man in tow, tongues would wag unceasingly. Instead, she explained to Malik how to reach the saray from the other side of the city.

“You will probably pass by the sacred pool,” she explained. “Not that there is anything but rubble there right now.”

“Are there still tunnels leading to your hideout there?” Malik wanted to know.

“All long collapsed, and collapsed well,” she shook her head. “The tablet is not there anymore. It is hidden in the hills outside of Edessa.”

Sun was setting as they saw Edessa in the distance. The city nestled against the shoulder of a tall hill crested with castle walls. Two tall pillars reached up into the sky, seemingly higher that the minarets of the mosques below.

“What are those?” Malik frowned.

“A torture to climb is what they are,” Astir said with a proud smile. “They are left from whoever built the castle. Latins, or Greeks, I am not sure.”

She pointed to a copse of trees in the heart of the city.

“That is the lake of the sacred fish, and over there is the cave where Prophet Ibrahim is said to have been born.”

She gave Malik careful instructions as they neared the city. Evening was drawing in.

“I need to leave you at the city gates,” she said. “The horses cannot take the shortcuts I can. I shall meet you at the saray.”

“After you’ve stopped to eat,” Malik commented.

She looked offended.

“Al-Rahim’s saray has one of the best cooks in Edessa,” she said. “Just find your way there, _dai_ , and you will receive a meal fit for a king, unlike the tripe you people eat in Masyaf.”

“Ever so proud,” Malik shook his head as Astir dismounted. He watched her melt into the crowd. Once she had disappeared, he made his way to the city gate.

Riding though the city, he was reminded of Jerusalem. Every now and then he would spot an oddly shaped stone that had probably once been the capitol of a pillar. A piece of an inscription in Greek would peek from under the awnings of a shop. Old churches, some of them long converted, towered over smaller houses.

He rode past a small group of Jewish scholars deep in discussion. One of them, he realised, could easily had been Astir’s devout and much angered brother. Little wonder she took shortcuts and less known routes to avoid some parts of town.

He wondered how bloody and destructive the battles for Edessa must have been. From the city itself, the castle looked impregnable. Yet some of the elderly people he passed as he rode must have still recalled how many times Edessa had changed hands in the recent wars.

Malik made his way past the sacred pool. The waters lay still in the gathering dusk. The ruins of the church and the walls of the previous mosque were gone. The foundations for the new mosque were being laid. He wondered how long this one would last before another war swept over Edessa.

A group of older men, scholars by the looks of them, sat nearby in lively conversation. One of the faces caught his eye. He could not be sure, and he was loath to approach the group, but it looked a great deal like Humam, the overly friendly scholar from Aleppo.

The man could have made it here from Aleppo, Malik mused. Astir’s injury had cost them at least a day, if not more. He would not risk Humam, if it was indeed him, recognising him. This would show him exactly how good the Order in Edessa was at gathering information.

Al-Rahim’s saray was considerably smaller than the walled compounds on the main roads. It still had thick walls and a sturdy gate. Malik rode around the building. Two more houses, each a different height, backed onto the saray. He could smell fires and steam from a heated bath. Most people would see a well-to-do inn. Malik glanced over the walls and the roofs and nodded to himself. He could see a well-appointed training ground.

Even within the wall of the city, the gates of the saray would close at night, he found out as he rounded the building again. A muscled fellow with an iron-shod staff at his side had just finished closing the door.

He gave Malik an apologetic shrug.

“We are closed for the night, friend.”

“Not to him, we are not, Rashid,” Malik heard Astir’s voice from the other side. “I told you to hold off closing the door.”

Rashid pushed one side of the large door open. Malik could see Astir pulling on it from the other side.

“You said you were bringing a guest,” Rashid grumbled. “I thought he had come in with you.”

“Horses can’t climb that well, fool,” was her friendly response.

“Those you did not mention,” Rashid countered.

Astir spread her arms as Malik lead the horses into the compound.

“How did you think I travelled there and back? Did you think I flew?”

Rashid shrugged while lowering the bar on the gate.

“Hardly, with how much you eat.”

The big man now turned to Malik and bowed.

“We are honoured,” he said. “Welcome to Edessa.”

Malik bowed back.

“Allow me to take care of your horse, _dai_ ,” Rashid offered once the introductions were complete.

“Mine as well, please” Astir said.

Rashid looked over the animals critically.

“That nag made it there and back, I see,” he said, patting the flank of Astir’s horse. “Even skinnier than when she left.” He looked at Astir. “The same cannot be said for you,” he grinned.

As Astir, with a great show of rage, sent Rashid off to the stables, Malik looked around the saray. Two trees grew in the central courtyard. In the day, they would have cast a lush shade over the yard. Now, at night, lamps were hung from the lower branches. The upper branches reached up to the second floor, above the stables.

Astir walked up to him, motioning proudly around.

“Al-Rahim is not here,” she said. “I am to be your welcoming party.”

“Is everything alright?”

Astir thought for a moment.

“I wish I could say yes. Nothing is amiss, but – “

She shook her head.

“I myself have only just arrived. Let me settle you in, and I’ll talk to others. Unless you would rather meet them all now?”

Malik had no objection to setting his things down first. Delicious smells wafted around the yard. He saw once again a cloud of hot steam.

“Is that – “ he began. Astir was nodding proudly.

“A bath,” she confirmed. She whistled sharply. A little boy ran up to them. Astir embraced him, called him by his name, Hossain, ruffled his hair and then rattled off orders concerning rooms, baths and food.

“Go with Hossain,” she said to Malik. “I shall try to find out what has been happening here. I know where to find you.”

Finally clean after the weeks on the road, and having changed into clean clothes, Malik followed the boy to a room on the corner of the building. He grimaced at how spoiled he had become as Altaïr’s second in command. The sight of a bed, a table to eat at and the rugs on the floor cheered him up to no end.

There was food already laid out on the table. It was mouth-watering. The boy put a large pitcher of water on a small table nearby.

“There is no wine here at all, _sidi_ ,” he said, watching Malik carefully. “As you know. But nonetheless, call if you need anything.”

Malik grinned at the knowing smile on the child’s face.

“I will be certain to, my friend,” he confirmed. He flicked a coin at the boy, who caught it expertly, then bowed.

“I do mean it,” the boy repeated. “Astir said she would have my ears if anything was missing or out of place.”

With another bow, he left the room. Malik waited a little, then helped himself to food.

There could have been half a dozen reasons for Al-Rahim to not be present at his arrival, he thought as he ate. They had not sent word in advance. He could not be certain that the man he had spotted was indeed the scholar from Aleppo. On his way through the building, he had not noticed any worried figures whispering in any corners. Yet Astir had seemed tense.

Malik looked out through the latticed window. A line of hills stood out against the darkening sky, black as ink. Nothing to do now but wait, he said to himself.

Someone was knocking softly on the door. Malik opened it a crack. Astir slipped into the room carrying a pitcher of steaming tea.

“Yes, all is as it should be,” Malik forestalled her questions. “With the room and the food, at least. What have you found out?”

As she passed him to settle down on the rug, he caught the warmth and the scent of freshly laundered cloth.

Astir’s lips were pressed in a tight line.

“The mentor has ridden out to fetch that cursed thing,” she said. “He took two others with him.”

Malik sat down opposite her.

“And why does that trouble you?”

“He is old, but not so frail and helpless that two of us should need to accompany him,” she said. “And those who went with him, Farraj and Rana, are two of our best.”

“How many of you are there?” Malik asked. “Fully, or almost fully trained?”

“Not more than five,” Astir replied. “And perhaps three more who will be ready soon.”

Malik tapped his fingers on his knee.

“And how many know about the tablet?”

“As far as I know, only three of us,” she replied. “That is why I am confused. Why bring it now? He could not have known we would be arriving.”

Still frowning, she poured the tea, passing him a cup. Her own was left forgotten.

“Rashid says nothing unusual has happened while I’ve been away. Well, nothing that he noticed, at least.”

Malik put his own cup down.

“On my way here,” he began cautiously. “I noticed a man who looked a lot like Humam from Aleppo.”

Astir looked up sharply.

“I am not sure it was him and I did not want him to see me,” Malik went on. “But it would be good to know for certain.”

Astir made to stand up, then stopped.

“No one will know before morning,” she sighed. “This is maddening.”

She looked far more angered than worried.

“What do you suspect?” Malik asked.

“Nothing, and that is the worst of it!” she hissed angrily. “I have been back for but a few hours, and suddenly I feel like the place has turned upside down while I have been gone!”

She slumped on the rug again.

“It is embarrassing, to say the least. Forgive me.”

Malik pushed the cup of tea towards her. She picked it up with a grimace.

“And nothing has happened that you know of,” he said. “Why are you so uneasy?”

Astir shook her head, putting the tea down again, untouched. She stood up and paced about, hands weaving through the air and counting off the problems.

“Al-Rahim could have left a letter, or instructions for me,” she grumbled. “Yet he mentioned nothing to anyone, and the two other people who know about the tablet have gone with him. And now you say Humam may be here. There is nothing to know,” she concluded. “And a feeling is not enough. But I feel that something is wrong.”

She leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

“I expected him to be here to greet you properly,” she said. “You are a _dai_ , after all.”

Malik’s eyebrows rose.

“Since when does Astir of Edessa set so much store by rank?”

She snorted.

“Since she feels that the proper welcome to her guest has been lacking,” she said.

“I’ve received nothing but courtesy and care since I have arrived,” Malik reassured her. “As for all else, as you have said, we cannot do much until tomorrow.”

He walked up to her.

“And so, what do we have?” he asked with a smile.

It took her a moment, but only a moment.

“Time,” she whispered.

Malik took her hand. He raised it to his lips.

“Exactly. Time,” he breathed against the warm, clean palm. He felt her other hand stroking his neck, then his shoulder. He slid his lips over her open palm, tongue darting over the soft skin between her fingers. In response, the hand on his shoulder clutched at cloth of his shirt.

“The whole night,” he whispered, gripping her hand more firmly. “A great deal of time.”

Pressed against the wall, Astir squealed. He released her hand and tugged on the rim of her tunic. She complied immediately, pulling it up over her head. As she struggled with the cloth, half her face still covered and arms entangled, Malik kissed her.

“Now stay like that,” he instructed, whispering in her ear.

“For how long?” she smiled, tongue darting over her lips.

“How can I tell?” Malik replied, his hand sliding down under her belt and between her thighs. “How long can your legs hold you?”

She gasped, whether at the challenge or at the motions of his hand, he was not sure. His mouth against her neck, Malik sighed happily. He felt like he had dipped his fingers in warm honey. He would not rush, he promised himself. His fingertips slid slowly, teasingly. Under his lips he felt the pulse in Astir’s throat and every choked gasp.

“Say something,” he suggested.

“Son of whore,” she managed through clenched teeth. Her legs were shaking. Astir snapped her teeth in frustration.

“Poetic,” he grinned, and kept up the slow motion of his hand. “Perhaps I should stop.”

Astir almost wailed, and tried again to disentangle her arms. Malik bent his head down and put his teeth to use, distracting her.

“You are still standing,” he pointed out before latching onto a firm breast. He remembered the dreams, but did not think much about his lost arm. Six arms would not be enough, he thought to himself. Astir gasped for breath, freeing her arms. A moment later, he felt his hand slip off as she wailed and slid down the wall.

“I yield,” she panted. “I yield.”

Malik offered her his arm.

“Stand up?” he suggested.

She licked her lips again, gazing up at him.

“My legs would not hold me,” she hissed. “Is that what you wanted?”

Malik retreated to the bed.

“Is that a problem?” he asked, slipping off his shirt. He watched, amused, as Astir tried to prove her point by crawling up to the bed.

“Should I show you what I can do on my knees?” she offered.

Malik reached down, pulling her up onto the bed.

“Let us save that for another time,” he suggested as the rest of their clothes came off. Astir draped herself across him, kissing him deeply.

“Why?” she asked. “Do you doubt me?”

Malik grabbed her neck.

“I have seen what that mouth can do with a fig or how it can clean fish off the bone,” he reminded her. “But there is light here, and I want to look at you.”

Gently, but firmly, he pushed her away until she was sitting astride him. He let her take his fingers into her mouth, moving his hand just enough to make her lean back so that he could enjoy the sight of the body arched over him. Astir’s hips twitched as she groaned with impatience. She clawed at his arm.

“Wait,” Malik whispered. “Save your breath.”

Hand on her neck, he twisted and moved under her, savouring the way his name turned into a desperate snarl in her mouth. He eased his grip, letting her fall forwards. It was a mistake, he realised in a moment. Her hands moved over him like snakes, but hot and slippery with sweat, leaving him well nigh breathless.

“As god is my witness, I could eat you alive,” Astir muttered against his chest. The next moment, he felt her teeth scraping against his side. Malik pulled her up by her hair.

“Is that all you ever think about?” he smiled. She was about to curse, he could tell. Letting her go, he reached down. He could feel nothing but wet heat below his waist.

“Perhaps,” she said again. “What would you have me do?”

Malik suddenly squeezed her buttock as viciously as he could.

“Let me see you ride, _houri_ ,” he hissed.

For all her complaints about horse riding, he could find no fault with her motions, or the grip on his hips. He buckled up, as though trying to throw her off, and his challenge was accepted. A few more moments of that, and Astir fell over him, both hands in his hair gripping firmly. In response, he let his hand grab and squeeze as tightly as he could. As she swayed above him, his tongue flicked out, catching her as she moved, until she was cursing and begging again.

He was not sure how long he let her plead or how many times he had called out her name, each time more loudly, each time with less breath. Perhaps it was moments, perhaps, as he hoped, it would have been hours, until he could no longer think of any barbed remarks, and until she ran out of insults and pleas. With one last conscious effort, he pushed her backwards, holding her in place, so that he could see her, all of her, arched over him, joined to him.

That sight was enough, and then he had to shut his eyes and fling his head back, feeling Astir’s hands grip onto his shoulders strong enough to bruise him. She collapsed over him, sobbing into his neck.

Once their grip on each other loosened, Malik ran a gentle hand along Astir’s back. His body felt warm and heavy now. They should both sleep, he wanted to say. The next days could be tense and fraught, or downright dangerous, for all they knew. Yet it seemed such a waste of time.

“Say something, Hadi,” he whispered into her hair.

She half-lifted her head, then rested it on his shoulder.

“Only if this is a dream,” she replied. “Else I do not dare.”

“Pretend that it is,” Malik coaxed.

“Very well, then,” she breathed. “I love you, _dai_.”

Malik thought back on the previous dawn, when he thought much the same, but did not dare say it.

“You are a braver soul than I am, Astir of Edessa,” he admitted.

He thought back on the verses of the Song of Songs, and a few other things, and gave up.

“Cowardice is an ugly thing, nonetheless,” he said. “I love you, Hadi.”

In the dying light of the lamp, he thought he could see a trace of tears in her eyes.

“Enough words,” she whispered, then kissed him. And Malik agreed.


	16. Shadows along the watchtowers

Even though he had woken up at the crack of dawn, Malik found himself alone in bed. He lay still for a while, his arm under his head, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of the city waking up.

He thought back on the past night. To his surprise, his thoughts meandered to another night he had passed in conversation with Altaïr. Altaïr had spoken haltingly, but heartbreakingly, about Adha and how seriously he had considered leaving the Order in those days.

Even more heartbreakingly, Altaïr noted that, had he been able to do that, Kadar would still be alive and Malik would have both of his arms. To that, Malik called him an ass, but lovingly, and pointed out that his decisions would have played right into Al-Mualim’s hands. They agreed that second-guessing matters, especially those firmly in the past, had never done anyone any good.

As he got up and dressed, Malik wondered at his own realisation that he was not, in fact, tempted to give up the Order or Masyaf. He wondered if that made him loyal and reliable, or cowardly and cold-hearted. For a fleeting moment, he wished he could ask Altaïr that question.

Someone knocked on the door.

Prepare and focus, Malik commanded himself silently, there is still a mission to carry out. He opened the door. Astir stood there, fully garbed and armed once again.

“We’ve spotted them coming back,” she said. “Al-Rahim should be here shortly.”

Malik nodded.

“Furthermore,” she went on. “You were right. That was Humam you saw yesterday.”

Malik was impressed.

“You work fast,” he commended her.

“The things that cleaners and porters overhear,” she shrugged, frowning.

Malik put his hand on her shoulder.

“Now is not the time to be angry, or frightened,” he advised. Astir shook her head.

“There may be a time for it later,” she grumbled.

In a short while, Malik found himself seated in a comfortable study at the back of the saray, introductions complete. He observed his host quietly. Musa Al-Rahim had an intelligent, kindly face, well matched to his name. Malik had observed the avuncular manner with which the man spoke to the staff and guests of the saray. Now, the door to that world having been shut, he noted how the man’s movements and words became sharper.

An oblong package wrapped in several layers of sackcloth sat on the low table between them. Astir looked at it, frowning all the while. The two young Assassins, whom she had introduced as Rana and Farraj, had been sent away.

Al-Rahim motioned for Astir to speak.

“There is not much to say, mentor. You have sent me to Masyaf for help and advice, and I have brought them with me,” she said, gesturing towards Malik. “I have told the _dai_ all I knew about this thing.”

“Thank you,” Al-Rahim said.

She almost interrupted him.

“However, I need to tell you that we were – or I was – recognised in Aleppo, by a man called Humam Ibn-Ahmad, a disciple of al-Suhrawardī.”

Al-Rahim sighed, then motioned for her to continue.

“He is bitter enough about the execution of Al-Suhrawardī that he sent people to kill us,” Astir went on. “Twice.”

Malik thought he saw the old mentor grimace, but not in surprise.

“And he is now in Edessa,” Astir concluded. “For the same reason, I imagine.”

Al-Rahim looked at her quietly for a moment.

“And you are angry, Astir,” he said calmly enough.

Astir gritted her teeth.

“I have all but forgotten about al-Suhrawardī’s visits,” she said. “And then I learned, all too late, that I had put _dai_ here in danger. This man blames you for al-Suhrawardī’s death.”

Al-Rahim nodded.

“It was foolish of me to show that young man the tablet,” he said.

Malik felt obliged to interfere.

“We seek explanations where we can,” he said. “And we have both made it here alive and well.”

He pointed to the package in front of him.

“You brought it back in good time,” he said.

Al-Rahim suddenly looked a lot older. Astir leaned in towards him.

“What are you not telling me, mentor?” she asked.

Al-Rahim sat up straighter and put his hand over Astir’s.

“This man, Humam, is in fact a close friend of our _mufti_ ,” he said. “The _atabeg_ of Edessa that Saladin appointed turned out not to be as trustworthy as Saladin’s heirs would like,” Al-Rahim explained to Malik. “Not long ago, Al-Aziz, one of Saladin’s brothers, rode off to al-Mawsil to put the Zengids in their place, and dragged the _atabeg_ along, possibly to keep an eye on him.”

Malik nodded.

“As you can imagine,” Al-Rahim went on. “This left our _mufti_ with quite a lot of power in the city. Astir, I know your opinion of the man,” he said, waving a hand as Astir grimaced. “But he has not shown any greed to power other than arrogance, truth be told.”

“What does this have to do with Humam and the tablet?” Malik wanted to know.

Al-Rahim sighed.

“Humam wants vengeance for al-Suhrawardī’s death,” he said. “He wrote to our _mufti_ , as it happens.”

The story turned grimmer as Al-Rahim went on. In the few weeks that Astir had been away, the plot had thickened behind her back. The _mufti_ was now aware that a certain treasure was in Al-Rahim’s hands. He might decide that it would be better placed in another’s hands.

“Does your _mufti_ know what this thing does?” Malik asked.

“Not in detail,” Al-Rahim said. “But I suspect that Humam had told him enough that, should the _mufti_ decide, I could end up dead on the charges of heresy, too.”

Malik shut his eyes for a moment, shutting out Al-Rahim’s sigh and Astir’s soft cursing.

“Let me see this thing,” he said.

The layers of cloth were unwrapped. Malik looked at the metal plate. It was very much as Astir has described. There was a strange shimmer to the metal, neither silver nor gold, but a strange colour in-between, that reminded him very much of the Apple of Eden.

This thing, however, was a flat block of metal, not thicker than Malik’s finger. On one side there was indeed an engraving of a human palm. The insides of the palm were dotted with small points, or protrusions. From each of these, a line ran into the centre of the metal plate. The lines, strange shapes and hexagonal markings intermingled in apparent chaos. He could also see the ladder-like shapes Astir had described. They spiralled across the board, strangely twisted. The rungs criss-crossed in a strange way. Here and there on the thin sides of the board, Malik could see studs, not unlike game pieces, that could be moved or otherwise adjusted. They, too, bore geometrical markings, but no letters or signs that he could recognise.

“Do not touch it,” Astir advised earnestly. Al-Rahim raised his hand.

“It is safe enough to touch,” he corrected her. “Every time it has come to life, it was because someone pressed a palm to it,” he added, pointing to the drawing of the human hand.

Malik’s eyes followed the lines and the curves marked on the tablet. All he could tell for certain was that it was crafted by the same hands that had crafted the Apple. Yet that was not a great deal of help.

“You sent to Masyaf for our help,” Malik began slowly. “I am not sure I can help you understand what this thing is. I was certain that we could hide it,” – and now he looked straight at Al-Rahim – “But that was before these latest events.”

Al-Rahim sighed.

“I was a fool to think it could be kept a secret,” he admitted.

Malik thought about the well-hidden bureau and the excellent training Astir had received.

“Secrets have a way of coming to light,” he said gently. “For what it is worth, if you had told Rashid Sinan about it, I think you would have already been dead.”

Al-Rahim shook his head sadly.

“I was right not to trust him, you mean?”

Malik nodded.

“He had people killed over such things before,” he said. “But that does not help us now.”

Al-Rahim stood up.

“I would love nothing more than to pack that damned thing on your horse and send it to Masyaf,” he said. “Astir tells me it is well nigh impregnable. She also cannot find enough words of praise for Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad. But first we must contend with Humam’s blackmail.”

Malik squinted at the lines of the board. There were two of those ladder-like shapes, each with a different set of markings beneath them. The one on the right, however, ended at the edge of the tablet. If the markings at the bottom were some kind of text, half of it was lost. He experimentally twisted one of the metal knobs.

Nothing happened. He moved one of the knobs from the other side, following the shape of the right-hand ladder. Finally, he ran his finger along the right-hand side of the tablet.

“Al-Rahim,” he said quietly. “Could someone find me a good sized piece of clay, or softened wax? I must test something.”

“Be careful,” Astir pleaded.

To reassure her, Malik dropped a piece of cloth over the engraving of the hand.

Astir stood up.

“I’ll fetch what you need,” she said. “Anything else?”

“A large sheet of parchment and some ink and charcoal,” Malik said, not looking up.

“What are you thinking?” Al-Rahim wanted to know.

Malik ran his hand over his face.

“You two know the men involved better than I do,” he said. “You would not need advice from me. But if I can glean anything about this thing, you would not necessarily be in as much danger.”

Al-Rahim nodded.

“In that case, we shall give you some time and quiet,” he said. “Astir, get what the _dai_ what he needs and then – “

“And then we should talk, mentor,” she finished his sentence for him. “I agree.”

The requested supplies delivered, Malik was left alone with the strange tablet. For a moment, he resisted the urge to touch it. Curiosity curbed, he removed the cloth from it and looked over it once again in silence.

He picked up the tablet and turned it over. There were protrusions and small holes on the underside, but no comparable markings or writings. He ran his hand along the thin edges again. Finally, he took the lump of soft wax and split it in two. He pressed one side against the left edge of the tablet and the other against the right, where the marking disappeared abruptly.

He nodded to himself as he examined both imprints under the light. The light touch of a finger would not reveal it, but the impression in the soft wax did. There were irregular lines and scratches, barely visible, on the right-hand edge. The left was perfectly smooth.

Cautiously, he laid the sheet of parchment over the top of the tablet. With even more caution, he rubbed the piece of charcoal over it until the markings stood out on the white parchment. With a sigh, he sat back and examined the rubbing in front of him. He took another sheet, placing it over the first one, and pressed on it until it a paler copy of the markings was transferred onto it. He then opened both sheets, laying them side by side.

He nodded at the symmetrical image in front of him. The ladders now connected, and there would be another indentation, for another hand, on the other side of the tablet. Two hands, a left and right, markings between them, and someone else’s hand to adjust the little knobs and pieces.

For what purpose, he could only guess. Having seen grown men lose their minds or keel over from the Apple of Eden, he suspected similar powers. It may have been meant to heal, or to kill, or to deceive. They might never be sure of that. But one thing he was certain of – or, he corrected himself, he could safely assume.

He looked to the window. He had almost spent an hour pondering and investigating. He had been so deep in concentration that all other sounds had faded from his hearing. Covering the tablet again, he walked up to the door.

Astir was nowhere to be seen, but he did notice little Hossain hovering nearby. Malik asked him to summon Al-Rahim.

Al-Rahim showed up with Astir in tow. Malik blinked at her. She stared at the ground sullenly, face pale and blank, arms folded together tightly. She gave him a silent glance, and he could see nothing but seething anger.

Malik waited until the two were seated.

“I think I have good news,” he said.

Al-Rahim stared at him, a smile breaking out on his face. Astir, in turn, stared at her mentor with the same silent rage.

“You understand how it works?” Al-Rahim asked.

Malik shook his head.

“It does not,” he said. “I am quite sure that this thing is, in fact, broken.”

He showed his hosts the markings he had made. With Astir holding one end of the parchment, Malik slowly traced along the charcoal markings with ink.

“The right edge is uneven, although this can barely be seen by a human eye,” he explained. “On the underside, where there are places to hang this, or affix it somehow, there is an odd number of spots where an even one would make sense.”

He dipped the quill into the inkwell again.

“And most people, myself excluded, have two hands,” he smiled as he lightly traced the outlines on the parchment. “At least half of this thing is missing. Whatever it was meant to do, it cannot do properly.”

He sat back and nodded at Al-Rahim.

“You can now think what you wish to tell your _mufti_ , and I am still happy to take this with me to Masyaf,” Malik offered. “But it looks like god can be merciful. This thing is close to useless. If left alone, it will do no harm.”

Al-Rahim smiled.

“Astir has carried out her task well,” he said to Malik. “I have been staring at this thing for years,and have not been able to conclude this. We owe you a great debt, _dai_.”

“What will you do now?” Malik asked.

“I shall take some time to think,” Al-Rahim replied. “And then I must send a message.”

Astir finally opened her mouth.

“I shall be happy to take it,” she said. Her voice, earlier so full of warmth, sounded strained.

Al-Rahim stood up and pointed to the door.

“No,” he said. “You have done enough for now. Look after our guest. Show him Edessa.”

“Very well,” she whispered. With a bow, she left the room. Malik was left alone with Al-Rahim.

“It is not a pleasant thing to have one’s mistakes made so obvious to a visitor,” Al-Rahim said. “I would rather not drag you further into this tale. You are, of course, free to leave. You are also free to enjoy our hospitality, such as it is, for as long as you want.”

“I will take you up on that offer,” Malik said. “I do want to know more about this place. And if I can help, I will.”

“We have been on our own for too long,” Al-Rahim said. “We could learn a lot from you once this storm has passed.”

Malik’s eyes wandered from the aged assassin to the tablet between them, then to a neat stack of white feathers, not sharpened into quills, on a nearby table.

“You’ve trained Astir very well,” he said, hoping his voice conveyed admiration rather than pity. “You should be proud.”

“ ‘Thus does God set a seal over the heart of every proud, haughty one’,” Al-Rahim replied.

By late afternoon, Astir had taken Malik over most of Edessa, but carefully avoided the madras near the sacred pool. Amazing though the city was, Malik could not shake off the feeling that he was being led around by a dog on a leash.

Eventually she led him to a ruined house below the fortress. They made their way to a shaded corner of the upper floor. Most of the roof and half of the walls were missing. The city spread out below them.

“Will you now tell me what has been troubling you?” Malik asked.

Astir chewed on her lip.

“He lied to me,” she said at last. And then, once more, through clenched teeth. “Al-Rahim lied to me.”

Malik waited.

“I rode into Masyaf ready to fight any of you for the slightest word against him,” she went on. “I would have gladly died at his command. And now I find that he had lied to me. I am a fool, a fool.”

“What was this lie?” Malik asked.

The call to prayer sounded in the city below them. Astir toyed with a piece of wood in her hand.

“Al-Rahim was indeed behind the execution of Al-Suhrawardī,” she said at last. “When he got word of his later writings and strangely devout followers, he panicked.”

The piece wood snapped in two.

“He did not send one of us. He did not speak to the _rafiq_ in Damascus. To cover his tracks, he wrote letters, and plotted, and had that young man killed.”

She turned to Malik, face twisted into a mask of disgust.

“He had an innocent man killed, and he did not even have the courage to deliver the blow himself. Humam is right to want us dead.”

Sun beat down relentlessly on the city below them. Malik heard the calls of the guard changing on the fortress wall.

I have come here to advise them and to help them, not to stand as judge and executioner, he thought. As gently as he could, he said as much to Astir. To his surprise, she did not argue.

“That is why we cannot kill Humam,” she said instead. “And he will not settle down until everyone who serves Al-Rahim is dead.”

Malik agreed.

“But he is in the right,” Astir went on. “And now, after all I have said to you about my wise mentor, all my bragging about our wisdom, I am told to stay away. So, I run to you like a dog with a tail between his legs.”

“What do you think Al-Rahim will do with that tablet?” Malik asked.

“I know how he thinks, and he almost told me as much,” Astir almost wailed. “He will give the damned thing to the _mufti_ , or to Humam, in exchange for the safety of the Order in Edessa. And it will end badly, I know it will.”

She put her face in her hands.

“Forgive me, forgive me,” she repeated, disconsolate.

Malik put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

“Let me tell you a story,” he offered. “Let me tell you about fools and forgiveness.”

As the shadows lengthened, he spoke calmly and carefully, without naming any names, about a brilliant, yet arrogant assassin whose actions cost Malik’s own brother his life. He told her about tunnels underneath the Temple of Solomon and how the treasure in them cost him his left arm. He told her about Jerusalem, about obedience, and about rage.

And finally, now freely mentioning Altaïr’s name, which he had been careful to omit before, he told her about fighting his way alongside Altaïr through the ensorcelled, mindless ranks of his brothers-in-arms in Masyaf village.

“Al-Mualim left them there to stop Altaïr and anyone else who had not fallen under that spell,” Malik told her. “He must have known that dozens of them would fall to Altaïr alone. He sent them to slaughter.”

Astir looked at him, eyes dark under the shadow of her hood.

“If I had known what you and he had been through, I would have been ashamed to complain,” she said.

Malik shook his head.

“That is not what I meant,” he said gently. “Consider that, instead, foolish though Al-Rahim’s actions may be, all he has done, he has done to protect the Order. He has not acted out of arrogance, and he has not acted out of greed.”

Astir nodded.

“And as for your rage,” Malik continued. “I would not judge it too harshly either. You are outraged and you feel disgraced. As was I, once.”

“Now you will tell me about forgiveness,” she whispered.

“No,” Malik said firmly. “I cannot teach that. That will come in its own time.”

“He sent me away,” Astir said. “I have given in to my rage and now he decided I was not to be trusted anymore.”

Malik smiled.

“Do you speak all the languages of the Book, Astir of Edessa? Do you know Surah Al’Imran?”

She frowned at him.

“You shame me again, _dai_.”

Hand on her cheek, he recited slowly.

“ ‘Here you are loving them but they are not loving you, while you believe in the Scripture - all of it. And when they meet you, they say, "We believe." But when they are alone, they bite their fingertips at you in rage. Say, "Die in your rage. Indeed, God is knowing of that within their breasts.’ "

Now she nodded and folded against him.

“I am ignorant, oh king,” she said. “Forgive me.”

“You ask forgiveness of the wrong man,” Malik whispered, stroking her hair. “The only reason I know that surah so well is because it kept me sane in Jerusalem.”

They sat in silence for a while. Shadows were deepening around them.

“I know I have been ordered to stay away,” Astir said. “But now that the evening is here, I cannot resist having a look around that madras. I am worried.”

“I will come with you,” Malik said. “And if Humam sees me, he is welcome to conclude what he will.”

Astir shook her head.

“Scholar or not, he is a stranger in this city, and I was born here. He will not see us unless we want it so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ayah of Sura Al’Imran (3:119) quoted in this chapter can be found in full here: <https://quran.com/3/119-129>


	17. The pyre of Abraham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Character death, mention of burn injuries

This time the walk through the city looked a great deal different. They skirted the more open streets and took small passages, barely wide enough for one person. Where Malik had trouble climbing, Astir took the place of his missing left arm. Finally, having rounded about half of the city, by Malik’s reckoning, they reached another ruined house. By the looks of the walls, most of the neighbourhood had been using the building as a quarry, except those who used it as a place to dump rubbish.

Astir shifted some of the debris out of the way to uncover a hole leading into a long-forgotten cellar. By the time Malik had joined her, she already had a lamp lit.

He followed her into the narrow passage. As they descended, the noise of the city above was replaced by the squealing of rats. Another few turns lead them into a wider corridor.

There was no telling the age of the stones under their feet. A thin stream of water ran down the middle of the disused corridor. Astir pulled him closer to it, pointing up. He noticed a good few loose stones in the walls.

“Almost to the madras,” she said in a whisper. “One of the tunnels goes all the way to the building itself, but we’ve rarely used it.”

They walked quietly along the middle of the corridor. It was not too slippery, but Malik decided to watch where he placed his feet. The shuddering lamplight reflected in the small trickle of water.

Malik hissed in surprise, grabbing Astir’s arm. Under his eyes, the water darkened, then turned the unmistakeable red of blood.

Astir swore and hurried on, leading Malik by the hand. The trail of blood turned into a narrower corridor. It grew thicker, its colour richer, until it led them to the source.

Astir stopped so suddenly that Malik almost bumped into her. The lamp in her hand shook as she almost dropped it.

They both crouched by the recently dead body. The man was covered with sword cuts and stab wounds. By the weak lamplight, Malik recognised him as Rashid, the burly brother who had let him into the saray less than a day ago.

Mouthing her friend’s name soundlessly, Astir leaned forward and closed Rashid’s unseeing eyes.

“When?” she breathed.

Malik looked at the wounds and the trickle of blood.

“Not long,” he whispered back.

Astir stood up, bracing herself against the wall for a moment. Her breath came out in short, sharp hisses. When she looked up, however, her eyes were clear.

“This is the tunnel that leads to the madras,” she growled. “I do not understand. Al-Rahim told me he would send Rashid with a message, but -”

“Perhaps he sent him to Humam,” Malik guessed.

Astir waved the lamp over the rest of the corridor. Its light revealed bloodied footprints. She and Malik nodded at each other.

Malik picked up the empty scabbard of the dagger that had been tucked into Rashid’s belt.

“He was practically unarmed,” he whispered.

“If they attacked him, he would have used whatever he had to hand,” Astir muttered. “I’ve seen him pick up a whole bench once.”

They followed the bloody trail. It ended in a rough chute, its surface smeared with blood.

“The back yard of the madras should be right above,” Astir whispered in Malik’s ear.

“I cannot hear anyone,” he replied.

Handing Malik the lamp, Astir crept forward and carefully lifted the covering of the chute. Malik smelled the evening air. A heartbeat later, Astir slid back down.

“There is no one in there,” she whispered. “But I can see the trail of blood still.”

They put out the lamp and crawled out of the narrow passage. The building was quiet except for the sound of water sloshing nearby. A wide red mark turned into the building. Astir and Malik pressed themselves against the wall. As they waited, a man in armour appeared, dragging a bucket of water behind him. Instead of a weapon, he held a broom, trying to sweep the blood off the cobblestones.

Malik slipped behind the man, picked up the bucket and nodded at Astir. She hissed just loudly enough. As the man turned, Malik caught him on the back of the head with the bucket.

Having dragged the unconscious man into a corner, they peered inside the building. It seemed deserted. They looked at the wet trail. It ended at a nearby door.

“Guest rooms,” Astir mouthed. “There is someone in there.”

“Humam,” Malik guessed. Their acquaintance from Aleppo managed to ensure himself privacy for whatever he was planning. Whatever mercenaries or crazed acolytes he had brought with him to Edessa were nowhere to be seen.

The door was partially open. Humam sat at a small table, engrossed in writing something.

Astir crept forward.

“Watch the door,” she nodded to Malik as they approached the room.

“What will you do?” he hissed.

“Try reason one more time,” she replied.

As Malik took up his post, Astir stood up. Malik watched with rising dread as she placed her sword on the ground, followed by the bracer with the hidden blade. Before he could stop her, she stepped into the room.

“Humam Ibn-Ahmad,” she said evenly. “I come to offer my apologies.”

Humam, equally shocked, stood up.

“I am unarmed,” Astir said, raising her hands. “Your guard is alive.”

She took one step closer, then fell to her knees in front of the scholar.

“I understand why you want my master dead,” she said calmly. “Forget about the lights and ancient trickeries. They will not bring al-Suhrawardī back, nor will they make right what my master has done.”

Humam walked around the table until he stood over Astir.

“What good is your life to me, you devil woman?” he hissed. “You and your master should both die, as will the others who serve him.”

“I said,” Astir repeated, “I understand why you want him dead. I know he has committed a grievous sin. But he has done a great deal of good as well, and with his death, that good will also cease. The thing that al-Suhrawardī had seen leads to madness and a slow death. Do not bring the rulers of the city into this, do not condemn more people to death and lunacy – take one life, however you see fit, and leave the rest of Edessa in peace.”

To Malik’s shock, Humam started to laugh.

“Your little life, to pay back for the glory we have lost? To cut away the path back to the light? Is this the best trickery your master can come up with?”

“It is not trickery,” Astir snarled, still on her knees. “Al-Rahim does not know I am here. If I had wanted to trick you, you’d already be dead!”

“No, you will be,” Humam nodded. He produced a sharp-looking dagger from his robes. “You, and your master, and the rest of the godless whelps that serve him.”

“This is a light that kills,” Astir growled. “Come with me, and see it, and you will understand.”

“No,” Humam yelled. “Your whorish bargain comes too late.”

He stabbed at Astir, and Malik moved with a speed he thought he had lost. He threw himself into the room, sword point first. He threw his entire weight on the blade, driving it though Humam. The force carried him forward until he felt the sword point bury itself in the wall behind the scholar.

His hand still on the weapon, Malik stared into Humam’s contorted face. He let go of the sword and with one quick motion, as quick as he could make it, stabbed Humam in the neck.

Bracing his leg on the wall, he pulled the sword out, letting the corpse slump to the ground.

“Take whatever he was writing,” he said to Astir. “And hand me that quill.”

Sword sheathed, the quill held in his teeth, he laid the corpse down.

“I hope you find your light,” he said.

He closed Humam’s eyes and gently ran the feather over the blood on the neck. Then he turned to Astir.

“Back the way we came,” he commanded.

He did not say another word as they descended into the tunnels. He did not say a word as he grabbed Astir’s arm and dragged her on, past Rashid’s corpse and into the wider part of the corridor. Then he almost threw her against the wall.

“What were you thinking?” he snarled.

“I am sorry,” she said. “There was no time to explain. I wanted to try reason one more time. I wanted to give him the justice he wanted.”

“He could have killed you!” Malik roared at her. “In front of my eyes!”

Astir laid her hands on his shoulders.

“I would have kept my word,” she said. “But I would not have let him kill me. If I had planned trickery, I would have told you first.”

“If you do that again, I will – “ Malik began, then stopped, unsure what threat would suffice.

She was nodding, hands on his shoulders, contrite and obedient.

“I will do what that old man in Hama advised, and deck you over the mouth,” he said at last.

“And I shall never act foolishly again before telling you first,” she promised.

Malik took out Humam’s letter. They read it together in the weak light.

The scholar must have barely begun it before Astir’s arrival interrupted him. After the lengthy salutations, he went on to inform someone that his work in Edessa would come to an end shortly. He begged forgiveness for placing his trust in the ineffective _mufti,_ and for his own impatience -

\- and there the unfinished letter ended. Astir put a hand to her mouth.

“Shortly? Impatience?”

Malik had a horrifying thought.

“One man could not have taken Rashid down, or dragged him into the tunnels,” he said. “Where are his other men?”

“And how many?” Astir replied.

“Lead the way,” Malik said.

They stumbled through the tunnels in as much hurry as the weak light allowed. The wick in the lamp was guttering. As they turned a corner, it died, leaving them in darkness.

“I know where we are,” Astir said, taking Malik’s hand. “There is a path to the street nearby.”

They climbed out through the rubble into a small alleyway. As they stood up, dusting themselves off, Astir cried out. Malik looked up to see a plume of smoke in the night sky.

“The saray,” Astir choked.

Malik spotted a cart piled high with bricks and pulled Astir towards it. Once on the rooftops, they could clearly see the fire leaping into the sky.

“What has he done?” Astir cried out.

Malik looked around. The rooftops were, for once, full of people, all turned in the direction of Al-Rahim’s saray. Two of them scrambled off the roof and ran.

As they neared the conflagration, a ring of onlookers barred their way. The two trees in the courtyard had become torches, burnt branches flying on the wind. Fire licked out of the windows. Astir pushed and elbowed her way through the crowd. The shouts of people mingled with the terrified screaming of the animals.

“Open the gates,” someone was yelling. Malik saw several of the city guards trying to break down the main gate to the saray.

“It’s barred,” someone else shouted back.

Astir fought her way through the ring of people, running like mad towards the back of the building. Malik rushed after her. Voices called for them to stop. As they turned the corner of the building, there was a blast from the kitchens. Burning latticework came flying out of the windows, showering the yard of Al-Rahim’s house with a fiery rain.

Malik finally caught up to Astir and flung himself at her, flattening her to the ground. She screamed and tried to shake him off.

“No, Hadi,” he begged. “Stay here!”

“They’re burning in there,” she screamed. “Let me go to them!”

Malik gripped her as hard as he could.

“Don’t move,” he begged again. “Hadi, stay here, don’t move.”

Another moment, another blast of the fire, and she was no longer thrashing. She convulsed on the ground under him, the demands turning into wordless screams and sobs.

Malik pulled her upright, his arm over her chest. Slowly, gritting his teeth against her screams and the scorching heat, he pulled her away.

“I know,” he kept whispering in her ear. “I know, Hadi, I know…”

Still holding onto her, he tried to listen to the disjointed, excited conversations in the crowd around them. From what he could gather, the fire had broken inside, and the door had indeed been barred. He remembered the mad acolyte who had attacked them in Aleppo while screaming his readiness to die. A few of those would have been enough. Rashid had been killed, Astir sent away. If another Assassin had also been sent on an errand, they would have been caught short-handed. Only a fool or a madman would think to set the whole place on fire. Then again, there seemed to be no shortage of either.

Malik half-walked, half dragged Astir further away.

“Astir, listen,” he said sharply. “You said there were other ways in and out of the saray. Where are they? Where do they come out?”

She coughed and sputtered, still breathing heavily. She took one look around, then motioned for Malik to follow. They came to a small, seemingly abandoned hut with a disused well. Several figures huddled against the wall, eyes turned to the fire.

Astir stumbled into the yard.

“Rana,” she called out. The other assassin, face covered in soot and scratches, leapt from the ground and ran to embrace her. As the two women spoke hurriedly, Malik looked over the small group. Apart from Rana, he recognised only the boy who had shown him around the saray the day before.

“What of Al-Rahim?” Malik asked.

Astir shook her head.

“Dead,” she said. “Humam must have sent his men to pose as travellers, probably just after he killed Rashid.”

She ran a hand over her face. It left dark trails on her skin.

“Al-Rahim never had weapons on him while in the saray,” she said. “It would have looked too suspicious. They found him unarmed.”

“They had oil in the jars they carried with them,” Rana added. “Before we knew it, the whole yard was aflame. They screamed about vengeance, and about light.”

Not much was left to tell, not did it take long to ascertain who was left. Another brother had stayed inside to buy the others time to get away. One of the younger recruits had tried to save herself by leaping out of a window, only to be cut down by two of Humam’s men who waited outside. That left Rana, and the boy Hossain. In the hut they found Farraj, his wounds hastily and badly bound, sitting next to a badly burnt young man who was groaning in pain.

“Isa is dying,” he muttered when he saw Astir.

“Is there a physician here you can trust?” Malik asked. Astir nodded.

“Hossain,” she called. The boy walked over to her. He was still shaking.

“I know you are brave,“ she said, putting her hands on the small shoulders. “Take _sidi_ here to find Al-Tabib.”

Malik dodged and weaved his way through the crowd, his hand hand firmly on little Hossain’s shoulder. The city had turned into a strange dance of fire-lit figures. He could hear people shouting for water or for help. Someone had managed to get to the stables and release the animals. The two pushed through the crowds, keeping out of the way of the people trying to coral the horses and camels. Others rushed around in panic trying to ensure their own house would not catch fire next.

After an eternity of weaving through smoke-ridden streets, they found the physician and returned to the little hideout. Farraj’s wounds were easy enough to bind. The young Isa, however, was beyond help, save that of _afyun_. Astir spoke to the physician quietly, in urgent whispers, begging him to forget he saw them. Once the healer left, she fell silent again.

They kept vigil by the injured man as the night dragged on. Sharp shadows danced on the walls. Every now and then they heard a crash as another part of the saray collapsed.

Some time in the night, the young brother called Isa died. In the silence that followed, Astir quietly told the survivors about the tablet, the scholars, and the plot. Having answered their questions, she walked out into the yard. Smoke and ash hung heavy in the still air.

“Wait until it dawns,” she said to Malik. “Then we shall find out if that damned tablet has also perished in the flames.”

“I doubt it,” Malik said. “Although it would be for the best.”

“Whatever becomes of it,” Astir concluded. “If we stay here, they will watch us like hawks. We have lost Edessa.”

“You’ve lost it for now,” Malik pointed out.

“I am tired, _dai_ ,” she whispered. “So tired.”

Malik put his arm around her.

“I know,” he whispered. “Believe me, I know.”


	18. If I forget thee, Jerusalem

The morning light brought little relief. The fire had died down. A woman began to wail somewhere.

“We should find the mentor’s body,” Farraj said.

“If there is anything left,” Astir said coldly, eyeing the burnt-out husk of the building.

“He deserves a proper burial,” Farraj argued.

“What good is that now?” she replied. “The price has been paid.”

Afterwards, Malik followed Astir as she stepped over charred bricks and embers into the husk of the saray. Collapsed stairways and beams hid whoever came to an end beneath them. To Malik’s surprise, Astir headed towards the privies, of all places.

“People will peek into cupboards and corners, and sneak into cellars, Al-Rahim used to say,” she muttered in answer to his unspoken question. “But it takes true dedication to go looking around privies.”

She walked around until she found a particular paving stone. To Malik’s eyes it looked no different from the others. Astir knelt and wedged her fingers against the edges of the stone.

The charred block moved to reveal a carefully shaped small chamber with a small chest in it. Astir pulled it out. Below it lay the strange tablet, unharmed. The sketches that Malik had made were folded carefully on top of it.

“What is in the chest?” Malik asked.

“Coin,” Astir said simply. “Rashid and I knew where it was hidden.”

“How much?” Malik asked again.

“Not enough,” she shook her head sadly. “Al-Rahim had no children, and no other family I know of. If anything is left, it no longer belongs to us.”

They made their way to what used to be Al-Rahim’s chambers. Astir walked over the rubble, stirring up clouds of warm ash as she moved.

She picked up a thin blade, twisted and mangled by the heat of the flames. The leather bracer had burnt off, the studs had melted, but Malik could still recognise the remains of an Assassin’s blade. Close by, they found a charred sword. The leather binding had burnt off the hilt. As Astir held it up, the scabbard fell to pieces around her feet.

“I need to speak to the others,” she said.

She took the bags of money from the chest, then kicked it into the rubble. Malik followed her out, carrying the tablet, once again wrapped in cloth.

Guards were gathering at the gate to the saray. Some moved to keep the looters away, some spoke with the lucky few who had survived the fire, and some surreptitiously poked through the ashes and the rubble. Astir walked up to the two assassins and the little boy. She handed each a bag of coins.

The boy Hossain was the first to speak.

“What do we do now, Astir?”

“Leave,” she said. “Someone will come looking and asking questions, either about Humam’s death, or the fire, or both.”

She turned to Rana and Farraj.

“If there are still madmen that followed Humam, they will try to hunt us down. We cannot stay here. There is nowhere to hide in Edessa.”

Farraj spat.

“We know this place better than anyone,” he argued.

“And this place knows us,” Astir said. “Will you let others be questioned or have their houses burn because of us? If we disappear, no questions can be asked.”

She turned to Rana.

“Get a cart and head downriver,” she said calmly. “Two days past al-Bira, turn west. You will come to a village with a healer named Harun, or Aaron. Tell him that I sent you, and stay as long as you need to.”

“And then what?” Farraj argued. “Wait for you? Leave our mentor unavenged?”

Astir spoke slowly, almost like a person talking in their sleep.

“You want vengeance? For what? For one killer killing another? Where is the sense in that?”

She handed them Al-Rahim’s sword and Humam’s unfinished letter.

“If you want to find the rest of these madmen, and ensure they do not harm others, head to Aleppo.”

She turned to Malik, and he nodded.

“That is where we first found Humam,” he said. “ _Rafiq_ Zulaikha could use your help, and you will learn more there than you would hiding in Edessa.”

“What will you do?” Rana asked.

“I will do what needs to be done here,” Astir replied. ”Then I, too, shall disappear for a while. I will find you when it is safe. But now, you should go.”

Rana looked shyly at Malik.

“Is this an order from Masyaf?” she said.

Malik shook his head.

“It is not,” he said. “But I agree with Astir. Head to Aleppo first. Should you ever need refuge, you will be welcome in Masyaf.”

In an hour or so, the three travellers were on their way. After the last farewells have been spoken, Astir led the way back to the small hideout. With Malik’s help, she buried the bodies in the tunnel that led to the hut, leaving Al-Rahim’s mangled hidden blade with the bodies of his dead recruits. They filled in the tunnel with the rubble.

Finally, Astir led him to a nearby well. She sat quietly on a nearby bench while Malik cleaned himself up.

“What will you do now?” Malik asked, sitting down next to her.

“Hide from the city officials when they show up,” she whispered. “Find your horse if it survived. Show you where to buy the things you have lost.”

Her head drooped. The dark hair, partially unbound, slipped out of the edge of her hood.

“And then?” Malik asked again.

Her face, covered with ash and soot, had hardened into a mask overnight. Now the mask cracked as Astir’s teeth chattered and her mouth moved helplessly, with no words sounding.

“I do not know,” she finally said. “Go back downriver,” she managed at last. “Get rid of that cursed thing once and for all, follow Rana and Farraj to Aleppo – “

Her voice caught in her throat. She bit down on her lip and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Don’t look at me,” she keened quietly.

Malik thought of broken things, and promises, and the importance of selfless sacrifice. He also thought, fleetingly, of someone’s smirking face.

“Come back to Masyaf with me,” he said to Astir.

“How can I?” she muttered.

“Come back with me,” he repeated. “For as long as you want.”

Malik watched her eyes open wider, hopeful, then turn downwards again.

“Is that an order, _dai_?” she asked quietly.

Malik could not believe his ears.

“How can you ask me that?” he gasped.

She shut her eyes, leaning into him. For the first time since the fire, he heard a quiet sob.

“Let it be an order,” she begged. “Let it be an order. If it is an order, I am free of guilt,” Astir said.

“What guilt, Hadi?” he whispered.

“Esther saved her people from harm,” Astir stuttered. “And I have failed. Now you offer me a reward for my failure.”

Malik glanced around. No one in the small square was paying any attention to the two soot-covered figures seated beside the well. He tugged on Astir’s hood to hide them both.

“I do not deserve –“ she began.

Malik kissed her.

“Then come with your guilt. Come with your failure,” he whispered. “I promise that you will be right at home in Masyaf, disobedient wife,” he said.

They watched from a safe distance as the guards and officials filed through the saray. Astir waited patiently by the stables until Malik, under the guise of an unfortunate traveller, managed to convince the guards that two of the surviving horses where indeed his. Finally, they rode past the saray one last time and struck out towards the main road.

A man in robes rushed past them, running towards the stricken saray.

“Hadassah!” he called out as he ran. “Hadassah!”

Astir gasped and pulled on the reins.

“Moshe!” she called back.

The man stopped and turned around. He stared at her for a moment, then walked over. Astir dismounted.

“You’re alive, God be praised,” the man she called Moshe said in Hebrew. “I heard the whole place burnt down.”

“I’m alive, brother,” Astir said.

Malik looked on silently as Moshe put his hands on Astir’s shoulders.

“Come back home,” he said. “Come back to us, and let all that has passed be but a dream.”

Astir embraced him, but only briefly.

“No, Moshe,” she said. “I cannot stay.”

Astir’s brother shook his head.

“But where will you go, Hadassah?”

“South,” Astir said. “South, to Hama, and further. Perhaps even to Jerusalem, brother,” she added.

Her brother shook his head in disbelief.

“Now, after all this, after forsaking your faith and family, you would go to the Temple?”

Astir shrugged.

“It is a wall, and a courtyard, and stones in the sun,” she said. “If God does not want me, he will cast me out.”

She mounted her horse.

“Farewell, brother,” she said. “Forget about me.”

“Wait,” her brother called out, in Arabic this time. It was Malik who turned around.

“Look after her,” Moshe said to him.

Malik nodded.

“She does not need it,” he said. “But you have my word that I will.”


	19. The pieces on the board

Altaïr looked at Malik over steepled fingers, not interrupting. Once Malik’s story was finished, he sighed.

“I am glad I spoke to you first,” Altaïr said. “It would have been cruel to make Astir tell it all over again so soon.”

“Then I take it her request to stay here is granted?” Malik asked, keeping a carefully blank face.

Altaïr nodded and gave Malik one of those rare, fleeting smiles.

“Of course. Not to mention that she could benefit from some more training before she heads back to Aleppo.”

Malik stood up, pointedly shaking the dust off his robes.

“If you have no further questions, I would not mind your gracious permission to clean myself up,” he said.

“You do look dusty and exhausted,” Altaïr agreed. “You took a while getting here, too. How was the journey back?”

Malik gave him a blank stare.

“Uneventful,” he said.

“That must be the tersest report these walls have ever heard,” Altaïr said. “Are you sure you have not left anything out?”

Malik shrugged.

“The great mentor requires more detail?” he asked. “I thought your time was precious.”

Altaïr rolled his eyes.

“Of course you did. Welcome back, thank you for your service, and I permit you to get some well-earned rest. That is, after you have found our guest somewhere to sleep. I assume that novices’ quarters will no longer suffice.”

And there was the smirk Malik had been waiting for. He snorted.

“Your keen insight is as overwhelming as your gratitude,” he said. He reached for the bag he had brought with him. “I have half a mind to keep this, but Astir insisted that I give it to you.”

He put a finely shaped wooden box on the table in front of Altaïr.

His friend looked up, the smirk gone.

“That? But you told me that the tablet –“

“The tablet is where I told you it was,” Malik interrupted. “I was there when Astir hurled it into the Euphrates. It is at the bottom of the river, or halfway to the sea by now, and good riddance.”

“Then what is this?” Altaïr pointed to the box.

Malik thought for a moment.

“With some effort of thought,” he said, one hand on his chin. “I conclude that you could probably find that out by opening the box. Or do you need me to do that for you?”

Now came the awaited curse, and it was Malik’s turn to smirk. Altaïr opened the box. He stared with undisguised surprise at the finely crafted chess set inside it.

“It caused quite a delay,” Malik explained. “Two hours, if not more, in the bazaar of Hama.”

That was how long it had taken for Astir to find the best chess set her money could buy, including the requisite time to haggle it down to almost half the price, Malik recalled, but Altaïr did not need to know that.

“It is a beautiful thing,” Altaïr said, examining the pieces. “But why?”

Malik waved his hand.

“A debt was owed, I suppose,” he said breezily. “That wooden set you gave her was lost in Edessa.”

They stared at each silently for a while, neither moving a muscle. Finally, Altaïr looked back at the gift.

“I am glad she found a use for it,” he said as he lifted the new chess board and placed it carefully on his desk.

“Is that so,” Malik muttered.

“A great loss, to be sure,” Altaïr went on, laying out the pieces. “With that little board gone, I imagine you must have been desperately bored at night the whole way back to Masyaf.”

Malik remained resolutely silent.

“Another detail that I will have to ask someone else about, I suppose, while you are having your well-earned rest,” the mentor of Masyaf concluded. He stopped to examine the king piece, then placed it on the board.

“Did you ever find out how the story of Esther ended?” he asked suddenly.

Malik shook his head.

“I have had very little opportunity for the study of holy texts in the past few weeks,“ he said.

Altaïr nodded, still smiling. He reached into the box and picked up the _firzan_ piece.

“The Franks call this piece the queen,” he pointed out.

“You insufferable ass,” Malik said. He took the figure from Altaïr’s hand and placed it on the board.

“It ends well, I think,” Altaïr concluded.

And Malik smiled.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I believe it does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you made it to here? Thank you so much for reading, and may your fandoms thrive.


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